A memory, my earliest: I am three-years-old and I am being sent to bed early for not eating everything on my plate. This was a new thing to me. What exactly does going to sleep have to do with being too full to eat my serving of pork roast? But this is the word of the new man in my mother's life. This man, I already know, means business. No smart mouth, he says. And then I find out what happens if you ask questions.

Another memory:  I am four and have a fever. I've been throwing up everything for a day and can't keep down even stale 7-Up. I am so warm that I've pulled up my pajama top to my armpits, trying to catch a cool breeze from a window fan. My stepfather comes in to check on me and pats my stomach. Look at how skinny you are right now, he says. Why can't you try to keep it like that? I lean over the side of the bed, stare into the bucket of vomit and feel the world spin.

Another memory: I am five and my babysitter Jodi is on a diet. She asks if I want to go on a diet too. We can be diet buddies. We need willpower she says. What's Will Power? I think of Will on "Land of the Lost". He never really had much power against the Sleestacks. This is willpower. Do you see this doughnut? Do you want this doughnut? I nod. If you want this doughnut, then you have to spend the rest of the night in your room. I do want the doughnut. I don't want to spend the rest of the night in my room. We were going to make popcorn and watch The Donny And Marie Show together. The doughnut looks good, though. I want it. I want the doughnut. I don't have willpower. I take it and walk sadly up the hall. She laughs and calls me back and takes away the doughnut, throwing it into the trash, grinding it down into the muck. I have no idea what just happened but I say Please don't tell Dad that I took it.

As an adult now, I look back to what it must have been like for him: coming back from Vietnam, falling in love with a recently-divorced woman with a little girl, being plunged at the age of 24 into a ready made family when you've only known two worlds: high school and dodging bullets. It must have been tough, I guess. I'm trying to be nonjudgmental here, but things were said, things were done and when it came down to it, before their first wedding anniversary, I was a five-year-old who wholeheartedly believed that something was wrong with her. While in the store, he would point out fat women and men and tell me that I was going to grow up to look like them. I started feeling embarrassed whenever HeeHaw was on TV, because they had a plus-sized actress and I didn't want to get caught laughing at her jokes, because it would mean that I must want to be like her. I tried very hard to be perfect. I failed. And every meal, every time I used too much margarine, every time I wanted ice cream, even if I didn't say it out loud, I failed. There certainly is never a single smoking gun when it comes to our issues with food and our self-image, but if there were, in my case, my stepfather would be holding it.

Last weekend, I attended my stepsister's wedding. Laura is awesome and I was happy to be part of her special day. And when she placed me at one of the reserved tables, alongside her paternal grandparents and her father and his (third) wife, I inwardly groaned, wondering what the fuck we were going to talk about for thirty minutes. How pretty Laura was, how good the food was, how lovely the flowers were, how many grandkids there were, those topics would be exhausted within minutes. It was going to be agony.

But I had forgotten about the simple fact of the matter: I would be sharing the first meal with this man in at least twenty-five years.

And this time, I wasn't doing it as a kid who was normal on the outside but fat in his eyes. Now I was doing it as his prediction come true--I have grown into a lot of things, but I am also undeniably fat. Due to dumb luck, Esteban was seated between me and the man, or maybe not dumb luck, as Esteban is fully aware of the complexity of my feelings attached to this man's presence. Dinner was served "family style" which means that women in banquet uniforms and sneakers come around and drop giant bowls and platters on your table, refilling as needed. Very indicative of a Midwestern wedding.

As soon as my former stepfather passed me the first bowl of dismal soggy canned corn, I felt a switch click in my brain. I normally would have passed it along with a barely suppressed sneer, but this time I automatically spooned a tiny portion on my plate and then passed it to the next person. You had to try everything you were offered and you had to finish everything, or be prepared to face the consequences.
The consequences that I knew damned well weren't possible, but you couldn't tell that to the six-year-old Weetabix inside my head. Whenever he would talk or laugh, the timbre of his voice gave me vague flashbacks like a victim of post traumatic stress.

I made it through a piece of chicken that I could barely swallow, some tiny forkfuls of every guilty spoon taken for sake of trying everything. Then I started turning down food or passing plates without comment. Someone offered me more chicken, but I was too tweaked to deal with it, so I automatically speared a listless piece of cherry torte to signal that I was done. I took two bites and decided it was disgusting and that I was being silly. I shouldn't let him dominate me. The man has no control over what goes into my mouth. Not any more. I was done with that part of my life. I was still hungry, so I said Oh, maybe I will have that chicken, more of a reminder that hey, I'm making the calls here, not anyone else.

I really can't explain what happened next, because I really don't understand it myself, but I heard a voice saying "No, you've already got dessert. Aren't you going to finish it before you go looking for more?"

I looked at my stepfather and his mouth was full and chewing slowly but his bright eyes were watching me carefully. He had not spoken.

No. The admonishment had come from my husband Esteban.

Later, when we discussed it during the ride home, Esteban said that he misheard me and thought I was asking him if he thought I should have another piece of chicken, which is equally as mindblowing to me, because why the fuck would I ask his permission to have a piece of chicken? He didn't know either and apologized for acting like a complete asshole. Honestly, I now wonder if there isn't some kind of aura around this man and Esteban had gotten caught in the tractor beam. The self-satisfied look on my former stepfather's face was as though he were watching the rightful beat down of a woman who had gotten lippy. I wish I could say that I grabbed a chicken drumstick in both hands and then grunted like Henry the 8^th while gnawing at flesh, but really, I'm way too repressed for that.

I said nothing but put down my fork and finished a glass of water in front of me then excused myself. I am woman. Hear me whimper later when no one is looking.

In reality, it was one tiny moment in time but in retrospect, I feel a bit as though I've lost another battle in a Hundred Year's War. Maybe what they say is true: we spend fifty years of our life trying to get over the first fifteen.--Weetabix