Page 71 of The Bonds We Break
The problem is simple. Childhood trauma relating to making meals. Dad would beat Mom or me if food wasn’t on the table when he expected, or if he didn’t like what we’d made, or if it wasn’t perfectly cooked or presented.
Dad beat me for eating too much. Too little.
Mom used food to care for us after traumatic events.
I write them down in a list form and then check on the fries—burned potatoes were a real pet peeve of my dad’s.
I swallow down the anxiety that’s building from cooking for someone else. When it’s just me, there is no pressure. It took me years to realize I could decide if I liked something or not. I happen to like my potatoes a little burned and crispy around the edges.
I start my list of strategies to overcome my triggers.
Five minutes of mindfulness before starting any food-related practice. Grocery shopping, preparing food, cooking, or eating.
Acknowledge that the meal I am undertaking has two roles. To give me nutrition and to bring me joy.
Journal to make peace with anything related to childhood food trauma.
Practice making one new recipe every week.
I pause and find a skillet I can heat to fry the steak. There’s satisfaction in the spitting and hissing as it hits the hot pan. For a moment I allow myself to consider what it would feel like to smash the hot pan into the side of my father’s face. If I intellectualize it, I know that thoughts of revenge serve a purpose. When there are no penalties for the perpetrator, vengeful thoughts can bring a dopamine hit, a feeling that there is balance in the universe. As long as they don’t become an obsession, there’s no harm, so I give in to my vision of it.
As I close my eyes, I imagine I can feel the weight of the skillet in my hand. The cast iron weighs heavy in my palm as I grip it tightly. I can feel the heat of the skillet in the air by my cheeks. I can even feel the wind resistance as I raise the pan high like a baseball bat and the reverberation up the handle when it slams into the side of his face.
I take a deep breath, thanking my imagination for allowing me to take a little of the injustice away.
I take another deep breath and affirm my commitment to stop letting myself be triggered by cooking.
When I open my eyes, I see King on the other side of the breakfast bar. His hair is wet, and he’s wearing a T-shirt that hugs his biceps. Ink spills from beneath the short sleeves all the way to his knuckles.
His face is utterly unreadable.
“I’m sorry. My childhood relationship with food was fraught because of my father. As a result, I struggle with the stress and anxiety it causes me when I have to make food for someone else. Especially if I feel as though I have no choice. It was cruel and thoughtless of me to raise private conversations you’ve had with my brother because I was triggered. He only shared them with me when I asked him why he respected you. Please don’t think badly of him for my lack of judgement.”
He tips his chin towards me. “What was that, the baseball swing?”
I thought I was only imagining it, but I guess I had acted it out too. “A visualization.” I push the list to King. “Another list. I’m a work in progress, King, like everyone else.”
He reads the list, then looks up at me. “The swing?”
I’m almost too embarrassed to tell him, but I realize that building trust is important. “I imagined picking up the scalding-hot skillet and cracking it into the side of my father’s head.”
The corners of King’s lips twitch. “Did it help?”
I take a deep breath and think about my answer. “It did.”
“My life is none of your business, Rae. Don’t ask me about it again.”
I nod once. “I can’t guarantee I won’t. But I will aim to be more careful in the way I talk about things that may be tender for you.”
A sudden screeching sound fills the kitchen, and I jump before running to the pan to flip the steak. It’s burned on one side.
“Shit. Shit. Shit,” I mutter as my heart rate accelerates until it’s out of orbit.
King’s reaches over me to turn on the vent and the smoke alarm quiets. His chest is warm against my back as he pulls me tight against him. “You’re safe, Rae,” he says, close to my ear.
“Don’t be kind to me,” I say as the tears threaten again.
“Perhaps it’s about time someone was.”
