Memories of a Childhood (the on going story)

I’ve been wanting to write this for some time. This is one of those posts where I make myself as small as physically possible with laptop in tow, a box of kleenex close by and a heavy heart because I know that what I’m about to write is going to bring me to a place of sadness. It’s what I do here. Some blogs are weaved with humor in their stories. Some are weaved with meal plans and product placements. Others are weaved with daily pictures of food consumption and calories burned for the day. Mine is weaved with story after story of how I came to be who I was and how I’m fighting to become all that I am meant to be. I spend a lot of time in self reflection about how my actions as an adult stem from situations that happened as a child. While doing something completely mundane (like eating or tying my shoes) I can be instantly propelled back to a certain event in my life that I can see so clearly I could probably tell you the color of my socks I happen to be wearing at that particular moment.

Sometimes an event will replay over and over again…

And do so for 30+ years.

The memory comes and goes as easily as me taking a breath in and out. It doesn’t have to linger for it to have the same effect on me each and every time. It’s like a jab to my side: Quick and Painful. One that throbs when executed to perfection and trust me, it’s been perfected.

When my mother owned her bar a bank bag would be dropped off every morning. I would wake up really early knowing that it would be waiting for my little hands to zip it open and take out a $10 or $20 dollar bill. I would take that money and as I walked in the direction of my school I would think about all the candy I would buy for that day. I wasn’t very good at maintaining relationships in school. Remember I was the kid that threw a tennis ball against the brick wall for most of my elementary school experience. But candy? Now that was the way to any friendship. My friends knew I could be relied on to provide our daily dose of bottle caps, gobstoppers, dubble bubble and Nik-L-Nips.

On one particular day I left my house late.

I qualified for free breakfast at school before classes started so being late leaving the house meant being late getting to the store and that meant late getting to school and not having time to eat breakfast. It didn’t dawn on me (cause when your 8 you’re not really thinking in terms of how to make a situation easier right?) to just buy a doughnut or something breakfast like at the 7-11. Instead on this particular morning I sort of ran to the store in order to get to school on time. I remember being panicked about not getting my cereal for the morning.

I remember thinking:

maybe this is the day I just go straight to school.

I can always buy candy tomorrow.

They’ll still be my friends.

right?

By the time the 7-11 was in my sights I may have been crying. Part of me didn’t want to be headed towards the store anymore. Part of me wanted to be sitting at a cafeteria table with the other early morning latchkey kids, my little box of cornflakes and my pint of milk. Part of me wished I was like all the other kids whose moms were probably making them breakfast inside the houses I was passing.

I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.

Or what I was doing.

I jumped over a cement parking divider. The kind that are painted bright yellow. I wasn’t looking down. I was looking at the glass door to the 7-11. I just wanted to get in, get out and get on to my breakfast. I jumped and landed on a small baby bird. I heard it before I felt what had happened. Even today, almost 35 years later I can still hear the pain that came from that poor little thing as my awkward feet came crashing down. I looked down and the image of what I had done was forever burned into my heart.

The original title to this post was “I don’t deserve food”

That early morning I started down a long and treacherous path of self hatred.

I find comfort in eating the same foods for a variety of reasons (oh so many blog posts and oh so much time to write them). One of them is that I prefer bland, cheaper type foods because inside I have had deep rooted resentments toward myself. To eat foods that I enjoy (really really enjoy) means that I need to love myself to know that I deserve them. When I go out to eat I often order the cheapest menu item, because I don’t deserve to eat what I want to enjoy. When I shop for food I’m often walking around aimlessly for most of the time because there are things I want to buy but can’t because I’ve convinced myself before I even walk in the door that I only deserve to eat what I always eat (carrots, tomatoes, chicken).

In that one instance I began to use words that cut me down emotionally.

I’m bad.

GOD won’t love me.

I’m a thief.

I’ve killed something.

I’ve continued to do that well into my adulthood. Even today as I begin to break away from that “I don’t deserve” to eat what I want and slowly turn towards “Tara, you’re a good person and you deserve everything that life has to offer” my mind quickly goes back to that early morning. Back to the tears and the wanting to be comforted like any kid deserves. Back to the yellow divider and ultimately back to that poor baby bird.

I’ve only ever told this story to two people and both times were very recent. I’ve carried that story with me day in and day out but kept it to myself. I was 8. I was just a kid. It took me a long time to make the emotional connection between what happened outside the 7-11 and the choices I make as an adult. I don’t know why I’ve decided to put this story out for the world to see (or at least those who read this). I’m not looking for some deep emotional release. I’m sort of hoping that by finally letting  this out to the universe eating foods that I want to eat will be easier.

But if that doesn’t happen

At least I don’t have to carry this around with me.

I’m sorry I stole the money.

 I’m sorry I stepped on the bird.

I’m sorry I never told anyone this story.