bon appetit ·
22 August 04

I don’t have much of an appetite. I lost it a long time ago, and this was directly because of my mother. I was forced fed food I didn’t want, and if I didn’t like it, then I could eat the pain of a beating.

That was pretty much how I was brought up. Fear, beatings. I think about it, and it’s pretty funny. Whether or not I put a foot wrong was irrelevant, if my mother thought I did, that was enough to kick the living crap out of me. Oh happy days, oh happy days, how I miss them so.

The allergy to fish is a psychological one I think. When my ex-gf, who was my gf at the time, cooked a meal, which was essentially made from fish, I ate it and it was fine and in fact, I enjoyed it. I tried to confront my allergy once by buying an oven meal, which consisted of fish topped with tomatoes and whatever. It looked really good, that was until I stuck it in the oven and turned the setting on to “fire”. It was overcooked and had to be thrown away.

My mother is responsible as I said for killing my hunger. She fed me so much as a kid, that if I didn’t eat what she said, when said, it was a trip to Bruiseville, sometimes followed by a short stay at Hospitalville. It was interesting when the nurse would ask,

“So how did this happen young man?”

I would look at my mother, who would give this look of death, that I’ll die if I say anything to incriminate her. So my response was,

“I fell”

Naturally it always worked, as my mother would hug me then, and say what a good boy I was. Is this what they call parental love? I think so!

So, when she fed me fish she’d bought from the mongers, and I said I didn’t want it, because the bones would stab my mouth till it bled, she would kick the fuck out of me. I would then eat the fish, with snot running down my nose, tears flooding my vision, and me barely able to move from the pain, as well as the wonderful presence of complete fear. Sometimes I cried so much that my mother called me a son of a dog or whatever it was in her language. I think in her language, to say son of the dog is not the equivalent of son of a bitch, in so far as the son of a dog reference is to the father not the mother.

She’d then send me to bed, without any food; ignore me and so on. Sometimes she would play a little game, and ask me to apologise and eat the fish and she wouldn’t be angry. I would apologise and wouldn’t eat the fish, so she would kick the shit out of me twice as hard. She’d grab what she could at hand: a plate, a shoe, a pan, whatever, and she’d always aim it at my head or my torso. If it hit, she would come for me and start pummeling the fuck out of me, telling me if I cried anymore she would beat me harder. I’d go to bed, and cry myself to sleep. Happy days.

How old was I? 5 or 6? Any memories I have of childhood revolve around violence, or as my mother called it, “love”. She loved me all right, and demonstrated it often with a heeled size 5 or 6, a big piece of wood, belt, or a sauce pan. When she broke the door down that time, when I locked myself into a room with no way out, she sent the guests home telling them not to interfere.

If it hit, she would come for me and start pummeling the fuck out of me, telling me if I cried anymore she would beat me harder. I’d go to bed, and cry myself to sleep. Happy days.

She broke the door down, and I couldn’t jump out of the window because I didn’t why I wanted to, and what it meant, and so I hid under the covers. Yeah, because you can’t tell where a crying 6 year old is on his birthday in a room with no exits other than the one you’ve just made. She had this thing, I can’t remember what it’s called but it’s used with a mortar, it’s like a big round wooden thing you use to crush seeds with in a mortar if that makes sense.

Thumped in my head first time, she proceed to repeatedly beat me with it. She told me if I didn’t get out from under the duvet, she would beat me till I was dead. So I didn’t want to die, even if I wanted to jump from a window and not understand why. She dropped the wooden thing, and then punched the hell out of me; warning me never to dare defy her again, or to try to hide from her. Happy birthday son, and today’s present is a bruised body. Same as every other day I guess. I guess everyday was a birthday for me.

She never asked me what I wanted to eat, I guess we were poor. I should have been grateful for what was put in front of me, even if I didn’t want to eat it. I was brought up in a country where they unhealthy and ate English food. That’s what I was, well sort of, even though I was born in Scotland technically, I was brought up in England. Semantics aside, I wanted English food, because that’s what I knew. I didn’t understand all this Asian crap, nor did I want this greasy shit. It stunk as far as I was concerned, and I was being forced to choke on it.

It wasn’t just fish, it was anything she cooked. I couldn’t add salt to, because she’d slap me round the head, and if my head hit the plate, or spilt anything, I was essentially dead, or would rather be, because what would follow is a fight between a child and an adult, perhaps two three times his size, as well as being stronger. Yeah, I tried to defend myself, but when my arms started to ache from the all the kickings and stomping, I had nothing left to defend with. And who hits their own mother?

So I lost my appetite. Even now she tries to make me eat, and tells me to eat three times a day and bitches about this and that, and that if I don’t eat I’ll remain skinny, even though my doctor, useless as the cunt is, says I’m the right weight for my age and height. Facts don’t matter to you when you’ve always decided what your kid ate, when he ate, and how often you punished him whether or not he was in the wrong.

Yeah, I tried to defend myself, but when my arms started to ache from the all the kickings and stomping, I had nothing left to defend with. And who hits their own mother?

Of course that is the main reason, but then over the years I’ve managed to control my eating. I can go for good few days without feed, and I’ll be ok. It hurts sometimes, but it’s ok, I can take it. It can’t be harder than taking a kick in the face can it?

So, today my mother pissed me off about eating, and I was this close to making something when she talked about eating something traditional, that is something Asian. That’s when I lost my rag, and told her to fuck off and die. I dropped what I was doing and came upstairs, and so I’m going to sleep without having eaten since yesterday. I think I may starve myself for a while, I probably deserve it anyway right?

If you’re wondering why I;m being so stubbornly stupid, and that I shouldn’t starve myself because of her comments. You’re probably right, but how do you break out of the conditioning that you don’t deserve to ear if someone who’s brought you up says you’re eating the wrong thing and you don’t want to eat anything else?

She’s brainwashed me in so many ways, that she can just trigger a response. This shit lasted for about 12 or 13 years, before things changed.

Anyway, it’s not that really, it’s just after growing up this way, I’m used to starving to be honest, I’m used to not eating, becoming weak and becoming ill. I’m so used to it, it’s become habit. Besides, I’m not going back to being a fat bastard again.