I’ve told my story, or some fraction of it, to probably at
least a dozen people now: Doctors, therapists, behavioral health counselors.
But somehow it never gets easier. I find the more sympathy I have for what must
have been going on with my mother (though I’ve never been particularly angry
with her, her situation seems sadder and sadder to me the older I get), the
harder the story is to tell.
Today was no exception. After nearly 13 years of practice, I
can say that she died without crying, at least in response to the
all-too-frequent person who says, “And what about your mother?” when I answer a
question about where my parents live with a statement about my father. I can
say how she died. But more than that and I break down. Do British people really
have such stiff upper lips that nobody cries even in therapy? (Presumably this
is too personal a question to ask a friend, since therapy here isn’t as widely
discussed as it is in the U.S.) There was a box of tissues, but the therapist
(conducting my assessment for the program I start tomorrow) seemed a little
disturbed by my doing so.
Every time I tell my story, I’m also struck by different
parts of it. Today, when recounting how shameful it felt, age 4 or 5, to no
longer be the same size as my (fraternal) twin sister, despite the fact that my
mother fed us the same food, I thought: Wow, my problems started so young. What
chance did I ever have not to feel like there was something wrong with me, when
it seemed all anyone did was discuss it?
From this appointment I walked from South Kensington through
Knightsbridge, up Piccadilly (past an antique jewelry shop with loads of tiaras!), and up to Bloomsbury – a little more than an hour
– to my nutritionist appointment. (I won’t always walk that much, but it was a
nice day, I like walking in London, and anyway, if I took the Tube or bus I’d
basically just be killing some time somewhere.) I’d heard what she was like,
and so was not especially surprised to be presented with quite a lot of food to
eat, but was definitely surprised to hear her say she thought I underrate yesterday
(when I had lasagna for lunch and some sort of tagliatelle in cream sauce for
dinner). I need more snacks, she says, and to add vegetables with ready meals
(which those were – can’t quite face cooking in this flat yet). The list of example
snacks is enormous, and encompasses quite a lot of chocolate – she thinks at
least one of your snacks needs to be something you love.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t sliiightly disappointed not
to be handed some kind of diet, even though I knew that’s not what I’d get. Diets
I know how to do. This I do not. Her rules also include no diet foods or lowfat
versions (except for milk), and carbs at every meal (a radical shift for someone -- me -- who has had some success with Paleo.) I confess I’m scared of
gaining yet more weight, but I know I have to just do this. No trying to find
the lowest calorie version I can get away with. She doesn’t require me to come
back and see her, but I’ve decided for now I will do 30 days of this exactly as
instructed, and then – if I want to see about changing things – go back. I
haven’t gotten on a scale for at least 2 or 3 years now (not without my eyes
closed, anyway; I got on one today), but I should be able to tell from my
clothes if the situation is getting worse.
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