[1] DEG: a round up

1st smallfeather

DEG = Disordered Eating Group which came to an end 16/12/15

I’m crying because I’m saying goodbye to a life that I have only known.  I am crying because I now accept that the people in my past were actually wrong about me.  I am crying because the hurt and the pain I feel within the confines of my body now know that they were not to blame for the actions, behaviours, thoughts and wrong-doings of many other children, adults and others in this lifetime.  The hurt and pain I feel deep within this well that runs the length of my body has housed the core of my being this lifetime.   And it is fair to say that I have not been a great house-keeper, landscaper, or painter.

This well within me has weathered many an atrocious and vicious storm, quake, flood and fire and it would also be fair to say that I have drowned, been burned, blown about and buried under rubble throughout much of my life and somehow the this body has survived and managed to keep the me in me safe and with a pulse – even in the most darkest of years when I yearned for death.

In terms of disordered eating, 1969 is where I believe it all began for me.  At birth the only form of nourishment I’d had to my mother (the umbilical) was severed, most likely by a man and because the male revered society allowed young or unwed women to feel ashamed of themselves for being hapū (with child) I was again removed from my primary source of fuel (my mother) and placed in a different incubator, one made of plastic and forced to accept this fuck awful false textured and tasting thing called a teat into my mouth.  The ‘milk’ or fuel that followed sustained me and kept me at a level of comfort.  Yes!  A disordered eating pattern had been been fully established.  I had learned as an infant that although the exterior wrapping of fuel for my body may look and feel foreign, the comfort within that wrapping allowed me to feel safe and warm and well, comfortably soothed.

And without exception, that pattern has been like a blueprint my entire life.  As I grew older and more independent, I sourced more extravagant wrappings. Oh the wonderful colours that seduced happy feelings within me on chocolate, lolly, ice-cream or ice-block wrappers.  And the “happy family faces” on Combo bar wrappers in particular, allowed me in all my childlike infinite wisdom to believe that if I ate a Combo I too would look like and feel the happiness just like the people on the wrapper!

What my childlike infinite wisdom did not yet know was that as a child, I could never have the happy family smiles and looks of love that the people on the Combo bar wrappers had.  And because I did not know this yet, I bought many, many Combo bars waiting for the happy family joy to kick in. I even began collecting the wrappers and stored them in a round plastic container that had a red screw on lid so I could look at the happy happy faces whilst stuffing myself with yet another Combo bar wondering what I was doing wrong because I could not manifest the happiness I saw in those bloody wrappers.  Advertising is such a hoax – in all it’s many deceitful covert and overt manifestations.

I had learned very early on if I only had this or that (a food item or other product) I would be this .. or that .. Or if I only bought this or that I could then look like this …. or that … Growing up there was no Oprah or Iyalana Gavantz – in other words, no-one I could actually relate to in terms of colour, to tell me to look inside myself and to begin there.  The brown faces I had on my TV were Fat Albert (oh the irony), Different Strokes which was a sitcom about a wealthy white man and his daughter who had adopted two black children, and much later The Cosby Show.

Much more to come as time permits.

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