BFF

“There is no sincerer love than the love of food.”

-George Bernard Shaw

I googled food quotes for this post and saw that one and chose it. I don't know if Shaw actually said it, but I am ok with believing he did and moving on.
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I'm Italian. Growing up, we celebrated everything with a meal. You graduated? Let's go out to eat! You're engaged? Come over and I'll make you some lasagna! You found the best nail polish ever? Let's have a BBQ!

Just kidding about the last one. We didn't have a BBQ at our house.

Food was a way to celebrate. Food was a way to show your love. Food was my BFF. I spent a lot of time with food. I was a latchkey kid. I came home after school, sometimes with my friends, and I ate. I ate a lot. Sometimes good things like tuna. Sometimes crappy food like bread crumbs and egg fried into patties. DON'T JUDGE. I just ate.

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My mom is an amazing cook. She makes the best sauce and amazing broccoli rabe and even her salad made with vinegar and oil is somehow that of angel's wings and fairy dust. I have tried recreating her food hundreds of times, but always fall short.

When I was little, I loved "helping" her cook. She gave me important jobs like grating the parmesan or shredding the mozzarella. Sometimes, if she was making stuffed shells, I got to help mix ingredients in the ricotta cheese for the filling.

I loved it. I loved spending time with her and making something for people and just feeling loved and needed. I associated those times with her love for me and her love for others. She cooked BECAUSE she loved and those she cooked FOR no doubt felt that.

Therefore, food equaled love for me. I don't say all of this to blame my mother or claim it's her fault. On the contrary. She instilled in me the love of wanting to do for people. Of wanting to show my love with my skills and not with money. Those are wonderful traits, and I am grateful for them. It was my own mind that confused me.

And now I am craving chicken cutlets or meatballs (saved out of the sauce just for me!). Sometimes it's a good thing that she lives 750 miles away from me. She would, no doubt, cook for me all the time. I may have to have another baby, though. She cooked and cleaned my house and brought me food in bed and shit like that when I had the other ones. Let me go get Mike....

But, I digress! I am too old for babies and too tired to even eat right now.

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As I grew older, I still had a love affair with food. Only this time, it wasn't delicious pastas and breads with salad. It was whatever I could get my hands on.

Quick interjection:

I was clearly in need of some mental health help when I was younger. I once wrote a note saying I wanted to die and put it into my little Jordache (REPREZENT) purse. I lost it at school and the principal found it. She looked inside to see who the bag belonged to, found the note, and called me to her office. I was eight. She asked why I wrote it, I told her it was a joke, and she sent me back to class. Can you even imagine?? What were we thinking back then?

I was also sent to the school therapist when I was 14 because I was talking about suicide. She talked to me, told me I should lose weight, and sent me on my way. Even suggested Weight Watchers. Once you lose weight, you guys, all your problems disappear! I know this because Richard Simmons told me so.

So, yes. I needed help, but didn't have anyone to help me, so I ate my feelings. Sad? Food. Happy? Food. Scared? Food. Tired? My bed. I couldn't cope with things on my own, so I recruited food to try to help me.

It DID make me numb. It DID help me forget for a few minutes. It DID give me indigestion. Help me, though, it did not.

I was still sad. I was still suicidal. I was still fucked up.

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You all know the song and dance, I imagine. The sadder I got, the more I ate. The more I ate, the bigger I got, the more I NEEDED to eat to keep my shit together. I am surprised I never ate myself into a heart attack.

Don't get me wrong. I was a relatively happy child and teenager. I think I was, anyway. Happiness is not the same as not being depressed, though. Being depressed doesn't mean you are sad. I don't know any way to accurately explain that, so you're gonna have to trust me on this one.

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For the next twenty or so years, I ate my feelings. I didn't know any other way to get through them. Also, once you've been doing it for so long, it is who you are. It's not strange or shameful or embarrassing. It's just what you do. It's just how you cope.

And it's EXTREMELY hard to get over.

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