When I was little, we hadn’t discovered that mummy has schizophrenia or any other compulsive traits she was let to be the mother she wanted to be. Her motherhood which also came without a manual felt like an iron grip around my throat, sometimes literally. She was abusive and believed that the abuse was good for me. She was just raised that way and her illness had taken down all the reality filters. She would be physically abusive to me while feeding. I didn’t see it as abuse because it sounds so big and intense till late, but by definition, it fits into abuse.
I was tucked under her legs horizontally, my hands and feet immobile, and force-fed everything. Since I remember having memories, I remember her force-feeding me a big glass of milk. It was too much for me, I would end up puking by the end of it. Seeing this as a sign of revolt she would push the vomit back into my mouth. I never felt hungry, I was always fed before I could. Over and force-fed.
It wasn’t all bad. When mummy was taken away and my life had basically no adult supervision, I found my love for panipuri and ate panipuri EVERYDAY for 3 straight years. I still love pani-puri and think of it when one says ‘dessert’. I love ‘kadhi’ with all my being and I am told that when mumma was well, she and my aunt would take me to the neighbors’ yard and show me cows while I ate.
When I grew up a little, and mummy’s health got better, she didn’t remember some of these textural elements of my childhood and apart from the occasional events where I would starve myself during exams, I didn’t really notice a problem.
Till I started living on my own. In college, all these established patterns of the psyche, these mental modules came into play. I started forgetting about or skipping meals till my body shivered from hunger. I never had breakfast or cooked a meal for myself. Now add to this my depression. It was hard enough to get out of bed, I wasn’t about to feed myself in addition, so I landed in a hospital from dehydration. Imagine how disassociated a person has to be from hunger and thirst to end a hospital for dehydration.
We still didn’t blame my eating patterns, we blamed the depression. Much later in life, when my PTS would be discovered, my therapist would make me design my routine around meals, to establish stability. I struggled with cooking or feeding myself. This went on till on a fine therapy Saturday, we realized that my brain never asked me to eat when I was hungry, my brain never understood when it was hungry (like I assume the protagonist doesn’t feel a stab in Mard ko dard nai hota). I can still go weeks without really eating.
She prescribed medicines that make me eat as a side effect. I have put on 3 kgs for the first time in 10 years.
I still find eating cumbersome, I always tell people that I would never eat a meal if food pills are invented. I still can’t stand milk but manage to drink some with cereal. I am teaching my body to identify hunger. A trick my therapist told me was to have a granola bar every time its mealtime or when my body even slightly feels like it could stand to eat. I feel like Kimmy Shmidt (I haven’t the guts to watch the show) who discovered this world of possibilities as an adult. I am liking it here, they have nice shawarmas, Chettinad, and red rice.