Parental Concern

I'm talking about my mother, of course.

I'll never understand her, nor will I ever want to. She disturbs me on every level of her being, and hateful as it sounds, I am not just going through a hormonal phase. She's my mother, but I've never loved her. I've only ever loved her because it was something we are taught to do and it is not socially acceptable to despise your mother. I don't despise her, that is a bit harsh, but shall I say, she is not what I want to become. And that is what's scaring me.

She eats very little, I'm always nagging her about how little she eats. As a mother, she is supposed to have a positive influence on me, practising what is preached. Far from it, and she is wraith-like, wretched, mentally weak. My whole life has revolved around not becoming her, and being different to her in every way possible. So much so that I am beginning to emulate my father, who would generally be regarded as a scumbag for leaving her, but I pity him. Not for leaving my mother, he's lucky to have gotten away.

I honestly cannot believe I just said that.

Several months ago we were clothes shopping when she caught sight of a young waif-like being. She must have been about fourteen, and her forearms arms were wider than her thighs. "That girl has anorexia," my mother breathed to me, trying to be discreet. I looked over at the girl. Indeed, she was ill. But for my mother to make a prejudiced statement like that, I was taken aback. That poor girl could have been suffering from any severe illness, but instead my mother decided she was anorexic. Anorexia, as in "the diet". I cannot blame my mother's generation for perceiving anorexia nervosa to be a wonderful diet that half of young, rich white girls are on, because of the media's horrifically incorrect portrayal of the mental disease. But still, I'd never make a judgement like that.

A rye smile crept on to my face that day, the irony of it all was unbearable to hide. My poor wretched mother, speculating whether that young girl was anorexic, when her own daughter has been suffering from an eating disorder for years!

She is finally starting to notice changed patterns in me though. Today she told me that I was eating a lot less than I used to. True, but now I'm in recovery. I am eating less so I don't have to make myself vomit. Not considerably less, but my good old detective mother sure did notice. She informed me of my eating habits as she buttered a slice of toast (with low-fat butter, might I add). That was her dinner.

Only recently the woman in question was trying on dresses in a boutique in town. All of the shop assistants told her how wonderfully she could carry off that dress with her figure! They repeated over and over. My aunt agreed. Again, I looked pretty smug, because she looked wretched. If you want to look that, I later told those shop assistants (in my mind), give up your life.

But what really brought me to the computer today was my middle-aged mother's interrogations. She hassles me like I'm committing some sort of crime, one that she will not be content till she solves. It annoys me no end. I'm not a criminal, I am the victim.

She thinks that me admitting my apparently-recent problem with food will solve everything. (Still, she won't stop hassling me about not getting enough exercise). I laugh at the very thought of it.

I'm in recovery.