Coping
Issue No. 6: Food, Nutrition, and Access in Our Communities
Words - Adesola Ogunleye-Sowemimo
Comfort can be confusing. It is something that we seek out as often as love, safety, and acceptance. Sometimes it is something that we run and take cover inside of when things get too hard. We want to feel protected, like things are okay, or maybe just to avoid confronting things that are too big to deal with.
When I was young, I was confused and lost in so many different ways. I had been shuffled around between homes so much. I didn’t know where I was going to live, who would decide I was too much to handle, what grown man would make me feel icky. My escapism was food. I always loved food and found it to be a place to explore flavors. The dance my mother, aunts, and grandmother would do in the kitchen was always so interesting to me. Being in the kitchen was my comfort.
Things changed when I moved in with my stepmother. She gave her life to the Lord and busted her ass to take care of her four sons, her niece, and me, the daughter of the woman her husband had cheated on her with. She did not take the last part very easily, but I was relieved. Finally I thought I might be a step closer to rest. No more weird men; now I was with family, my brothers, and my stepmother who was an amazing cook that I could learn from.
And then it was one hit. Then another and another. One was for not wearing a hat to church. Another was for joining an after school science club and being a crossing guard. I can’t remember all the reasons. My dreams of finally feeling safe were gone, and I was trapped with a woman who took the anger she had towards her husband out on me. I hoped that maybe my mother would rescue me.
Food rescued me instead. I ate and ate until I was full because it was the only thing that made sense. When my mother eventually came to get me, food had already become my savior. I barely knew my mother and she barely knew me. We lived in a one bedroom apartment and I spent a summer in a strange new city where I had no friends but all the food I could ever want was stocked in the fridge and pantry. That summer I gained 80 pounds and had to start middle school. I had another battle to face as now my peers saw me as ugly, beneath them, and not worthy of their time. I’d come home and contemplate jumping off of our 10th story balcony, figuring it would be better than living in constant anger and sadness. But then I remembered that I had some extra food that I had not eaten yet and ran to that instead.
When my aunt made comments about how a growing woman needed to look, I shoved more food down. When all the boys I was in love with laughed at me when I approached them with notes reading, “Do you like me? Check yes or no,” I ate as much candy as I could steal from the local convenience store. The more I ate, the bigger I got. The more I ate, the more everyone told me I would never find someone who would love me. It was not until I moved to Philadelphia after college, when I lost the closest friend I had and was battling depression, that the real work started.
I learned that I was relying on other people to show me what made them comfortable. I was trying to fit into that mold, and the sadness was killing me. I was running away to a substance that I didn't always even want. It took me until I had literally eaten myself into Type 2 Diabetes when I finally decided that I owed it to myself to figure out healthier ways to deal with my sadness. I realized that I wanted to make that little girl on the balcony know that she could be a carefree person in the kitchen, or in a band, or in an office. That she can be her own comfort, and someone else's. That yes, she is broken, but so is everyone else. I need her to know that she is wanted, she is loved.
I still love food. But now it reminds me of those moments in the kitchen with the women in my family: the laughter, the ease with which they moved, owning their space, drinking their Heineken, and yelling at the soccer game on the TV. Now, it reminds me that I am in fact wanted, I am loved.
