My mom starved me to make me “pretty,” so I made sure she starved in her golden years.
The Years of Hunger
My mom blocked my class trip so I’d finally have some self-control, telling me softly.
You’ll undo months of hard work.
When I asked her why she hated me so much, she laughed light and airy and said, “I’m helping you be less better.”
I didn’t say a word.
That was 8 years ago. This morning, she tried to write a note for help but couldn’t hold the pen.
My mother only wanted to starve one of her children. Me, not my perfect sister with her size zero homecoming dress. Not my baby brother who lived on chicken nuggets and chocolate milk. Just me, the middle child who took up too much space.
When I was eight, she slapped my hand away when I tried to reach for seconds. Luckily, my dad stopped it straight away. He’d spent years in foster homes where kids didn’t get more than one meal a day.
He wanted to break the cycle. But instead of stopping, my mom got crafty. My dad’s 16-hour shifts meant daytime meals were her territory.
They started small. She served my siblings pancakes while I got a teaspoon of rice.
“It’s healthier for you,” she said, watching me drool over their plates.
They’d get after school snacks. I’d get lectures about listening to my body’s real needs.
The manipulation was the worst part. If I ever asked for more food, tears, full-blown sobbing about how she was trying to help me, how ungrateful I was.
The guilt worked. I learned to stop asking. By seventh grade, I was chewing ice cube between classes to keep my stomach from growling.
The school counselor noticed I kept falling asleep and suggested I might be depressed. I knew better than to tell her I was surviving on 600 calories a day.
And I never told my dad directly, but I gave sign.
Is it normal to feel dizzy when you stand up?
I asked him once over dinner. My mom’s laugh was light and airy, like an empty stomach growling.
You know how dramatic teenage girls can be.
I was the same at her age. Always complaining, always negative.
My dad ruffled my hair, distracted. He believed every word. Why wouldn’t he?
She kept our pantry stock, our fridge full, playing the concerned mother when he was home.
The universe threw me exactly one lifeline. Our neighbor, Mrs. Garcia, twice a week, she’d watch me after school while mama and Aaron.
This woman took one look at me inhaling the crackers she offered and knew. Without a word, she started making extra portions of whatever her family was having.
Spring rolls, fried rice, actual food with actual calories.
Mom would collect me. All grateful smiles. But the moment Mrs. Garcia’s door closed.
Eating like that is why some people never amount to anything.
She’d stand there and make me watch while she scraped perfectly good food into the bin.
This is why they’ll never have our kind of discipline.
The irony burned worse than the hunger.
Everything changed when I turned 15. My history class was going to Washington DC for 5 days. All meals included hotel breakfast buffets, unlimited snacks.
I’ve been saving babysitting money for months. The day before, I reminded my mom what time we should be at the airport. Her smile was razor thin.
“Sweetie, I don’t think you should go,” she said softly.
“You’re finally making some progress. It’s just a few days. You’ll undo months of hard work,” she interrupted.
“Maybe when you have more self-control.”
That night lying in bed with my stomach cramping from hunger, I tasted something new in my mouth. It was clarity. She’d been feeding on my hunger for seven years.
