Growing Up With An Anorexic Mother (Part I)

When I was 9, I witnessed a horrifying scene. The bathroom door in my apartment was slightly ajar. My mother was squirming on the toilet seat, my father struggling to hold her on the bowl. I was terrified. I didn't know what was happening.

A few minutes later, paramedics took her to the hospital in a stretcher. From then on, my mother was in and out of hospitals for the rest of her life and never lived with me again. Mom had one too many enemas and suffered the consequences on that day.

For the rest of my childhood I lived with my father. My parents finally divorced when I was 13. Many years later, my father told me that he knew his marriage was no good from the start, but stayed married because he mistakenly thought a divorce would upset his mother.

During his marriage, my father, a naturally gregarious man, was almost as socially withdrawn as I. Only years after my mother's death did he regain a measure of his former mirthful personality.

I laughed a lot as a small child, but that happy glow soon faded. I had no friends and began to busy myself with things rather than people. I became extremely serious and tried to excel in everything I did. I became very studious; I did well academically. I became a good competitive swimmer. I have reaped many rewards from my academic and athletic pursuits, but I did those things not because I wanted to, but because I had to. After years of psychotherapy, I now realize that if I hadn't done those things, I would have gone insane.

Next Week: the influence of my mother's anorexia during my later years and its broader impact.

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