The First Taste

Content Warning: This post will discuss eating disorders, suicide, and postpartum depression

My mental health journey hasn’t been straightforward, but I’m not sure that anyone has a straightforward one. The first thing I had to understand is the role that stigma played in my journey. Both sides of my family are from Mexico and the stigma is real. My mom's mom is the type of person who will accept the family molester over the person with mental health challenges. Meanwhile, the other side is completely dysfunctional in a way my therapist can't even believe. If you've ever seen Coco you'll know that food plays a very central role in our culture, but it can be weaponized too. The scene where Abuelita piles tamales on Miguel's plate is absolutely accurate. What it doesn't show is how girls (or in my case people assigned female at birth) are told not to eat too much or else we'll get fat.

Before I continue I have to say that my immediate family (mom, dad, two sisters) have been very open about mental health in the last few years. Unfortunately, it was my cousin's death from mental illness that allowed us to talk about mental health out in the open. As a group, we've decided that the buck stops here and we're going to do everything to prevent my children from going through what I dealt with.

I don't remember a time when I didn't have depression. It's as much a part of me as my brown skin or double-jointed fingers. As a kid, I was so afraid of getting in trouble that I remember vomiting in class when I thought I was in trouble. My anxiety was always kind of there, but it wouldn't really rear its head until after my daughter Aine was born in 2015. But I remember the first day I consciously chose to skip a meal.

It was 6th grade and I chose to pocket my lunch money instead of eating. I was going through my chubby phase and I just wanted to be thin. My mom is absolutely beautiful in a way that doesn't feel real. I was always aware that there were pretty women and then there was MOM. I wanted to look like her, and I felt like my belly and awkward shape made me absolutely vile. It pains me to even say this, but she tried to help me to go on long fast walks and saying things like "Skinny, skinny Vanessa." Ugh...those words make me sick. When I was younger I would point the finger and say "You're the one who did this to me," but it's not that simple. My mom has her issues, but she always valued me as a person. Hannah, my therapist tells me that it sounds like Mom saw me as a little human worthy of love, even if she wasn't always sure how to show it.

My biological father was a bodybuilder back in the '90s. He's admitted to taking ephedra and I suspect there were other things too. As kids, my middle sister and I were given Snack Wells and Diet Mountain Dew in our lunch boxes because that was somehow better than juice and Oreos. He'd wake me up at the crack of dawn on Saturdays to force me to go to aerobics classes so I could lose weight...in third grade. As the years went on he married his wife who has always been a yo-yo dieter and he'd call her terrible names. She's a horrible person but no one deserves that level of abuse. I can hear him berating her for not being the size he wanted her to be and hoping I'd never gain so much weight that he would stop loving me.

That first skipped lunch was a step and each year I took another. I moved out of my mom's house (we'll get there eventually) in 10th grade and it spiraled out of control. I was never emaciated, but I was sick. Of course, the biological father and his wife were ashamed of me and put me in a hospital more for their benefit than mine. I didn't want help and it kept going. What no one tells you about Anorexia is that it never stops. Every hunger pain brings me a rush like I'm doing something "right" but I'm learning how to have a healthy relationship with food. I had a baby--my sweet Juju--this year and I forgot how triggering my postpartum body could be. Yeah...it gave life and it has fed two amazing children. But it also doesn't change the fact that no one makes clothes for bodies that have just given birth and are nursing. Yes, I've survived two births that would have killed me a century ago, but I want to look cute damn it! So you know what I'm doing? I found high-rise shorts, baggy pants, and crop tops. (I'm a tight-shirt baggy bottom kind of pan-person) If someone doesn't want to see stretch marks they can look away. I bought a bikini and wore it to the beach and I didn't care who saw my belly. Well...I cared about one person. I cared about the little girl who calls me her hero.

Aine is six and a half and I have to be careful about what I say when it comes to food and body image. Like most moms, I get so frustrated when she won't eat her vegetables. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD JUST EAT A GREEN BEAN! Okay, maybe it's not that extreme, but it's frustrating. She nursed for three years and I did my best to feed her food that would be good for her body and now she only wants chicken nuggets and mac and cheese! Sometimes I find myself fighting tears at the table because I've made something that I think she will like only to have her make a face. I'm not the only one, right? I want her to eat things that will taste good but will also make her feel good and I feel like such a failure when she refuses what I cook. I don't care if she's chubby, skinny, or fat I just want her to be healthy and happy damn it. I want her to see her mother rocking a mom-bod and to not feel ashamed. I want her to exercise because it's fun and to eat nutritious food because it fuels her body. I'm trying to cut out words like "good food" and "bad food" unless it relates to taste.

I want her to love herself in a way I was told I didn't deserve. The world is going to tell her that she isn't enough, but fuck that. She's more than enough.