I went to talk to my therapist the other day about the fact that I can’t seem to stop eating. Some of you are thinking, “Wow, Marla. You are so incredibly mentally adjusted. Why would you need a counselor?”
I started seeing a shrink back when my kids were teenagers, and I was worried that I might actually kill them in their sleep. Well, not in their sleep, because that’s when they still looked cute. But let’s just say that our family life at that time was hellish — something I didn’t share with you because I didn’t want to go into all their personal business.
I’m sure the idea of hellish teenagers is something quite unfamiliar to most of you, but let’s just say I needed someone to talk to who wasn’t my friend, because if my friends ever found out how bad it really was, they probably would have beaten the kids to a pulp with a baseball bat. I didn’t want that. Well, maybe I wouldn’t have minded if they just mashed them a little bit, but a pulp would be going too far.
Since I’m not married, I didn’t have to fight with my husband over this issue, so that was good. However, I did need an objective observer to tell me that (a) I wasn’t crazy and (b) I wasn’t actually a terrible mother and (c) we would all live through this. She also made some suggestions along the way that helped move things in a good direction.
Luckily, she had lots of experience with adolescents, in fact she had a couple of her own, so she was very helpful in this regard. And everything actually worked out well. Today both of my kids are young adults who are pleasant companions, gainfully employed, still live with me and occasionally even take out the trash.
After everything calmed down in our household, I stopped seeing the therapist. But I had this eerie feeling for years that everything was going along too well. I had a job I loved, enough money, no one was driving me insane and I was frequently pervaded with pleasant feelings of relaxation.
Well, that, of course did not last. I came back from India in 2019 with some troubling symptoms, so I went to the doctor and discovered that I had cancer. It might surprise you to learn that this was unwelcome news.
In fact, after I saw the apathetic surgeon who broke it to me, I came home and curled up into a fetal position in my bed for about two days. The next thing I did was tell my doctor, “I need to go back to my therapist.”
So they approved me and I’ve been seeing her ever since. Again, it’s useful to be able to talk to someone and know that she’s not going to gossip about you, or divulge the deep, dark secrets you share with her. For example, I told her … wait. You didn’t really think I was going to tell you that one, did you? Get me drunk around a campfire and see what happens.
That’s my favorite part of camping, apropos of nothing. Sitting in the dark around a campfire, drinking wine, and egging people on until they tell you intimate secrets about their lives. Staying in a hotel just doesn’t cut it. Darkness is required. And fire. Anyway, I digress.
So, I told her that I can’t stop eating lately. And that I’m eating crap that’s making my body feel rotten. Let’s face it, people, I don’t need to gain any more weight. I thought you were supposed to lose weight when you have cancer. Ha! I wish.
She did not respond correctly. I wanted her to be stern and authoritarian and order me to stop stuffing everything into my mouth. To remind me that I could be in control. And that feeling better was a choice I could make any time I wanted. Really, a slap in the face would not have been out of line.
Instead, she told me to stop beating myself up, that I was going through a lot right now and I should be nice to myself. Are you kidding? Well, if I can’t beat myself up, then she should do it for me. What am I paying her for? Well, OK, the insurance is paying her, but you get the drift.
If my mother were still alive, she’d whip me into shape in no time. That woman never wore above a size 8 in her life, and she never let me forget that I am too large, starting back when she’d give my brother ice cream to fatten him up, but tell me I couldn’t have any.
But now I’m trying to take charge of my own health, and feeling pretty good about it. Since I went back to eating junk, my body has been shrieking at me to stop. It aches and throbs with inflammation. I’d actually forgotten how bad eating meat and processed food makes you feel.
So I’m back on my healthy eating plan for me. And I don’t think I need to slap myself, though if I need to be slapped, I can think of a few dozen people who would volunteer.
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