(no subject)

[chantico]

Originally this was just going to be a reply to on of laurelwren's comments, but I realized that there was actually a post in here somewhere, and some stuff that I would do well to explore myself. I'm finding writing here theraputic for probably the first time ever, and realize that the more I write stuff down, the better organized my thoughts are becoming on the matter; the materialization of little nigglings on screen is leading to me being able to push them aside and look at the meat of the issue. Kind of like following the tentacles coming through the doorway to the body of the cthuloid thing outside. Only, less with the gibbering and squamous-ness. I hope. So bear with me (or skip to the end), because the reflecting is more for my benefit than anything else.

So! As I said before, I was responding to the comment with your basic 'yeah . . . I know, I'm breaking an addiction, and my body isn't going to like that very much' when I started thinking about where and why I developed my current hideous eating habits.



See, when I was little, my parents did everything a parent should do in trying to raise someone who had a healthy relationship with food (save perhaps making me eat a wider range of vegetables). Every meal I ate was well balanced-- fruits, vegetables, grains and proteins. Not dessert *ever* until after dinner, and then it was a fruit popsicle or something similar. We didn't eat sugary cereals, had candy at best once a month or on special occasions, and ate three square meals a day with snacks in between.

So what went wrong? What went so horribly, horribly wrong?

Anyone who knows me probably anticipates where this is going.

Upon arriving in the House from Hell, most of our basic patterns *period* fell apart. There was no designated bedtime, because how could you have one when you slept in the living room? How could you brush your teeth normally when all water had to be boiled first? How could you eat well when mom worked until 7 every night and dad holed himself up in his little crazy-room?

We still had dinners, but not the money to buy anything other than poor-people food-- polish sausages (I still can't eat them to this day), ramen, spaghetti-O's, canned hash. Cooking was quick and dirty. Breakfast and lunches were abruptly left to the kids, and my sister and I were in no position other than shellshock to do much of anything.

A couple years of that, and your palate has adapted to crap.

Eventually, it got better, money improved, we could afford real food again, and we at least had some electricity. But our refridegeration systems were two glorified coolers, one of which was a deep freeze and one which settled out at about 50 degrees, 60 in the summer.

Substantial things-- meats, extra butter, soup stock, main course sort of stuff, as well as all of our frozen vegetables-- were kept downstairs in the freezer. The light-less, flea-infested, sewage stinking downstairs. And, oh, that was before you got to the actual basement where the freezer was located. A mud-pit filled with insulation, rusted metal, stagnant water, and wild animals that nested there (as well as being unheated in the winter, of course). We cleaned this huge, hulking thing maybe once a years, so it stank of rotten meat and mold. Appetizing, non? This trip, which me or my sister had to do almost every night (and resulted in some of the most violent fights between us, including kicking each other down the stairs while beating each other in the face with our Maglights-- typical sister stuff), was the crowning moment of horror in our days. We were both scared *shitless* of the dark, let alone that swamp.

So that's the main memory I have associated with stuff that requires cooking.

Fresh stuff was even better. Not as blantantly terrifying, but far more dangerous. Winters weren't so bad, because we actually kept most of our fresh fruits, veggies and dairy outside the kitchen door, and the pantry was mostly pest free. But from March to October, there was a reason we begged most of our food off of friends.

As I mentioned before, the "fridge" had a normal temperature of 50, 60 (or 70, sometimes) in the summer. Not the best for keeping things fresh. We supplemented this with bags of ice, but that wasn't the most reliable of cooling methods. It also meant that the fridge was constantly humid. This meant that any food that stayed in the fridge for more than a day, two days tops, was absolutely suspect. Fruits and veggies rotted, milk curdled, cheese molded. I can recount was VERY unpleasant experiences regarding not paying close attention to what I was trying to eat, and the smell of rotten milk is one that I know intimately-- in fact, its one of the phantom scents I pick up when stressed out or overly worried.

Anything in the pantries lasted a little bit longer, but was subject to the whims of our housemates . . . namely moths, mice (or rats later on), ants and flies. Pastas, breads, rice and cereals had to be carefully examined to make sure they were free of bugs or mouse shit. (Strangely, they left the ramen and packaged pastas alone . . .)

This left, out of the entire house, these things regularly safe to eat: Chef Boyardee style canned pastas, ramen, canned soup, and straight peanut butter.

Jesus fucking Christ. No wonder I have such a hideous relationship with my food . . . not only has my body become adjusted to utter and complete crap, I have a *danger response* writ into me. Healthy foods are inherently dangerous. All of those times I bit into a rotten apple, ate mushy carrots, drank curdled milk, maggoty cous-cous, freezer-burned meat . . . I associate real food with illness and poison.



I don't really know how to approach this. Breaking an addiction I can handle . . . I know the basic principles, I know what to avoid, and if I falter or need help, there are tons of resources to help me.

But how in the hell do I rewrite Pavlovian conditioning that tells me healthy eating is dangerous eating?