It is 1997, a hot Summer, I am ten years old. Our Mum and Dad have just told us, their four children, that they are getting a divorce.
We are sitting in a restaurant named ‘Fatty Arbuckles’ (funny and foreshadowing really given what was to happen in later years.) Divorce, at that moment, didn’t seem to weigh too heavily on my mind as I have a most welcome diversion…. I am told I may order anything my heart desires from the dessert menu. Of course I select a huge ice cream sundae, resplendent in its creamy, melt in the mouth glory, of twenty scoops! And thus starts my complicated relationship with food. A relationship filled with years of tears, vomiting, self-loathing, self-harm, self-destruct. Of two rounds of Gastric Band surgery, with possible surgery imminent. But mine is a story of hope, that beyond a body of scars and fat and pain, I am a wonder, a woman. A woman of passions, desires, fears, loves, losses that are not always connected directly with food but are forever somehow inextricably linked.
I try every day to convince myself that food is not the enemy….
It has been, and still is, a hard journey, but one I feel I have to and want to share.