“No one will ever love you.” Mom jabbed her index finger into my bicep for emphasis, so I would not forget. I almost dropped a dish as I cleaned up the kitchen.
“You think you’re better than us, smarter than us, but you’re too stupid to do anything,” she yelled.
“Yeah,” chimed in my brother Sam. “You’re ugly. You wear makeup but you’re big, fat, and gross. You’ll never look good,” he laughed. “You’ll never have a boyfriend.”
I had no father to rescue me from their daily onslaughts. My body absorbed their words as I remained silent. They could not hear my skin and my teeth crying. All I wanted was their acceptance, touch, and affection. I struggled to speak, but I could not.
Remembering their words, I hear my skin howl inside its layers as it did then. Like a lizard on hot sand, it slithers among my tissues, writhing and squirming. It darts quickly and loudly without an audible sound, complaining to the unknown for approval and touch. It chatters to me, to the atmosphere, to others, as it sizzles and struggles, searching for words. It lets me know its agony after a younger life deprived of conversation and touch.
On these excursions of remembering their verbal incest, I desperately needed my chomping teeth and the smooth motions of my tongue to soothe the impulse of words imprisoned in my skin. I needed excess food to soothe the warehouse of wounds stored as snapshots within my abdomen. Only then was I enabled to safely experience the waves of violent memories that overtook me. Ruminating this way guarded me from their harm while I imagined triumphing over them.
My mother and brother threatened me if I tried to defend myself against their aggressive language. Held captive by their taunting sentences, I was defenseless and absorbed their malice and their merciless words.
“I know what you’re thinking, and don’t you ever forget that. You have a mind full of nasty thoughts,” shouted mom. “You need to change your personality,” she demanded, screaming.
I could not sort out the chaotic thoughts in my brain. They were immersed in waves of fear and horror of myself. What was I? Who was I? Was I a sinner, morally corrupt, or an animal of some kind? In panicky binging sessions after school, I ate junk food while hiding inside my abdomen. In there, there was safety within secret food menus customized for each typhoon of emotion that outstripped me. My protective body grew larger and my lizard skin sizzled and squirmed inside my bedroom sanctuary.
“Your skirt is too short for your fat legs!” mom exclaimed.
“You are a wounded water buffalo,” Sam smirked.
“Your body is disgusting.”
“That boy you like hates you.”
These snapshots in my abdomen repeatedly wounded me, frequently flashing at the forefront of my mind. Memories and their emotions overtook me and bound me inside my skin. I pacified them with entrees, snacks, and desserts from the corresponding appropriate cache inside my warehouse. Within, there were albums of snapshots and flavors of emotionally enticing menus. The menus were sorted by taste, mouth texture, sweetness, and bulk. As new thoughts and emotions arose, I invented more abdominal categories. The food menus were sorted by my mother’s and my brother’s and my own name-callings to me. By far, the most fattening menus were:
“I hate myself.”
“Everyone hates me.”
“I am uglier than anyone else.”
“I am worthless.”
“I am stupid and a failure.”
My extra-large body capacity held all these beliefs securely but not discretely.
I hid inside the layers of my skin until gentle words of freedom arrived.Eating placated me as my lizard skin and carefully organized abdomen screamed at them, blaming myself for being me. Rebelliously, I chewed down the remembered relentless words. I grew furious at myself because I could not solve this tangled, confounding dilemma. I became increasingly self-centered, isolated, and introverted. I was defeated. Reaching my mental and emotional capacity, I crawled inside my abdomen of menus and snapshots and relied increasingly on foods and moodiness to cope.
These powerful subterranean self-destructive family memories drove me to look for an acceptable body image in the internal scrapbook picture album assembled and spotlighted by my psyche. Searching, I found alluring self-images and new body parts in fashion media and clothing catalogs. My life became an ongoing series of self-preserving objectives: Work, grocery shopping, eating, chewing, and buying large volumes of clothing from trendy big, beautiful women’s clothing catalogs. With the media, I compulsively fed my dreams of being a thin, beautiful model and professional woman. Driven to mentally modify my wounded water buffalo body, I lived within fantasies that offered me no consolation, touch, or love. Increased internal stresses kept me silent, and my skin sizzled even more. It glowed red hot.
As I lurched into my overly large adult body, I grew more distant from my identity and from society. I was a foreign species, some kind of hibernating animal in entasis. However, as I healed through Overeaters Anonymous, Adult Children of Alcoholics, and Al-Anon, I gradually broke free and matured and came to know that my family taught me to be their nonverbal skin lizard as they implanted dark thoughts into my abdomen through their words, naming me their “Wounded Water Buffalo.” I was their scapegoat as they committed verbal incest against me, their daggers penetrating my skin. I was able to leave them in their poverty because a friend invited me into a healing lifestyle called the 12 Step program.
I spent a large part of my life seeking foods that gave me secret powers to withstand the words and emotions violently injected into my electrified skin. With a bewildering landscape of unspoken language, I could only rely on the pressures beneath it to communicate for me because my mouth could not speak.
Today I have 12 Step program meetings, sponsors, friends, and professionals, and a Higher Power who gladly affirm me and listen to my liberated words. They offer their fellowship, experience, strength, hope, and loving words as we walk along our spiritual journey together.
“You are beautiful.”
“Your skin is soft and youthful.”
“We love you.”
“You are smart.”
“We are glad you are our friend.”
Most of the snapshots have lost their power as I share them with program peers and then drop them behind me by working the Steps and collaborating with God and my sponsor. The ulcerative words screamed at me by my family during puberty and young adulthood are incrementally losing their impact. Every day, baby step by baby step, my body and psyche are becoming attuned, resulting in self-acceptance, inner peace, and a reduction in body size.
The horrors of growing up ate my insides alive. I had to find ways to feed the spasms of starvation for acceptance, touch, and affection. I chose food. With that choice, I gave up hope of having friends, of being accepted, of being beautiful, and of being loved. I gave up hope of being human.
I hid inside the layers of my skin until gentle words of freedom arrived. With the 12 Step program they have finally come. My personality, skin, and abdomen walk upright, straight, and tall. And so, do I.
Dorothy P. attends Overeaters Anonymous, Adult Child of Alcoholics, and Al-Anon. Please send your First Person articles to phoenix@thephoenixspirit.com.
Last Updated on October 18, 2023