Hello my name is Cakes, and I am a compulsive overeater.

I spoke to my oldest friend tonight, 5/25, about my eating problems.

I remember one Lent, when I was still observing the Roman Catholic ritual of not eating meat on Fridays, my father brought home calzones, with meat in them. I love calzones. Always have. I remember telling my father, “ It’s lent I’m sorry I can’t eat that.” He was so despondent. I was probably 10. At this point my weight had not started to balloon. I had not started to binge. I had not started to steal money so that I could by taboo foods. I remember the guilt I felt.

It is the same guilt I feel whenever I don’t finish something, although I have slowly started to learn to feel proud. Throwing any kind of food in the garbage, is a major achievement in my tiny world.

I am not a healthy person. I am an obese person. One is not because of the other, nor is it exclusive of the other.

“P’s favorite drink is scotch. If he can handle himself drinking beer, would you drink scotch in front of him? That wouldn’t be fair,” my friend said. “Your family doesn’t do anything to make your eating habits easier for you. Your mother sends you to pick up Burger King for her, how can she not expect you not to get it for yourself?”

She is right. My threats to take away my money or her latest to take away my keys are not going to help me. If anything make the situation worse. She is trying to help, yet at the same time she is hindering my recovery.

My mother is not perfect. I have put her on a pedestal and tried and failed to live up to her. She doesn’t think of herself as perfect, I did. It’s still hard not to.

I ate a container of Macadamia nuts while we were in DC last weekend. I heard about it for the rest of the trip. My sister heard about it when I wasn’t around. That’s when the taking away of car keys came up. My sister defended me. She doesn’t have a healthy relationship with food either other things too.

If I could get away. If I didn’t have to be dependent on my mother. If, if, if…. I need to deal with this issue. I can’t make excuses. I have to work through the mental pain, even though it is easier to work through physical pain.

I have to eat to live, not live to eat. I can still enjoy my food, but I can’t hide in my food. There is a balance. The precarious balance of a tightrope. It will be hard, but it’s a battle I have to win or I’m afraid it’s going to kill me.