When I was a child, did I feel like my mom made me feel fat? Yes, my mother's anxiety about her weight was like a slimy leftovers, and that anxiety was passed on to me as well.
Weight. 
Her favorite ** was the one she wore in a tight black swimsuit on the beach, and she was about 20 years old at the time, around 1945. This **is clearly a professional**: Mom is wearing high heels, sunglasses, blonde hair combed back from her face like a cover girl, and she is 5 feet 1 inch tall, and she manages to make herself look like a statue.
When I was born, she was 31 years old and no longer looked like her younger self. She married my father, a handsome Italian man, moved from her hometown of Quebec to a three-family home in Brooklyn, lived with his extended family, gave birth to a six-year-old son, and settled down to live the life of a working-class housewife.
As she grew older, she became depressed about her getting older. My father didn't seem to be getting older, and she was being left at home more and more often. She is becoming more and more alert to her life, her hair is getting darker, and her cat-green eyes are getting deeper. She insisted that we move out of the multi-family house and into our own small house in the suburbs.
In that little house, she likes to sit in the kitchen and eat. She loves hot white bread toast dripping with butter, mashed potatoes, hot dogs, and french fries. She loves ice cream and sliced American cheese; She loves ham sandwiches and canned salmon.
The food comforted her, but the weight gain made her uncomfortable.
She smokes to avoid eating; She drank countless cups of tea before she didn't eat. She drinks metrecal to **. She hated the way she looked. I know she doesn't like her body; But she doesn't like her body. She hates shopping. She hates mirrors. I would watch her look at herself, and her expression made me sad.
She tried to mock women who tried to change their body shape through dieting. She smoked Newport menthol and said it was ridiculous to try to change her figure once she had a baby. She compares herself to the women in her neighborhood or on TV. A woman who does not have children is not a real woman, she does not trust them.
Her self-loathing was palpable. It is contagious because if the mother does not really love herself, the child will find it difficult to learn to love herself.
My mother died in her forties.
Thinking back to the short years of her life, when she tried to reduce from number 16 to number 10, I was both deeply saddened and strongly protective of her. My mother was a woman who was shaped by her culture and times. How could she not be? She desperately wants to be the woman the world expects her to be: cheerful, pretty, neat, optimistic, charming, and kind.
But it's too hard; It was impossible for her. Self-acceptance, self-compassion, or self-love are also impossible. These are not on the menu. If she can forgive herself for her imperfections and allow herself to be loved by others, including me, she may enjoy her life more, live life more fully, and approach the experience more passionately.
She didn't give me the same amount of shame as she did, and I'm grateful for that.
Unintentionally, however, she did transmit to me a fear of losing control of my appetite. I was afraid of being devoured, I was afraid of going too far, I was afraid of taking too much, I was afraid of doing too much: I was always afraid that once the plate was turned, I would not be enough. It wasn't until the last three years that I was able to believe that I was capable enough.
After years of **, I have come to understand that appetite itself is not a bad thing.
2024 Travel Guide
Learning to accept and appreciate desires is essential for our physical and mental health. When we try to stimulate the infinite desires of others, we run into problems; When we try to satisfy the wrong cravings, we may feel unfulfilled and emotionally hungry.
Food is not the enemy, but food. Eating is not a crime; Weight, like age, is a number; The comparison is offensive; It may be lovely to get people's attention, but don't come at the expense of endlessly turning to the past.