December 28, 2023:
There's something wrong. Something about food.
I don't like food. There's a very restricted, very narrow list that I'll tolerate. Hamburgers, hotdogs, corn on the cob. Chips, sodas, ice cream. No-one points this out at the time, and it's late in life that I notice that these are picnic foods — my father's foods. My absent daddy's foods.
I don't like eating. The physical act is stressful. My mother watches the fork anxiously from plate to mouth. Her anxiety is transmitted, so that I hate the activity and cut it short as soon as possible. Eat enough to not starve to death, then stop.
They — the adults — all of them — look at me sadly, and with disapproval. I'm too thin. The sitter says, sadly, "You're nothing but skin and bone," and I look at myself thinking, What else is there supposed to be?
My mother tells me, "If you don't gain weight, the authorities will take you away from me. They'll say I'm a bad mother." This makes me even more reluctant to participate at meals. I internalize the idea that there's something wrong with me. I'm doing something wrong, or I am something wrong.