And I was just eight.

So, it’s awful, these things that happened to some of us, these things that happened to me. Oh, God.

As a kid, I scratched my way out and ran away from my difficulties using food, even drugs to escape.

Later as an adult, I found myself in the same sort of agony, the same sort of situations once again…always a new play, new actors with but one constant…me.

You could say I was used to it – the neglect, the parental alcoholism, the emotional abuse, the pain, the secrets, the dysfunction.

My coping mechanisms: Primarily, it was food binging that gave me pleasure, the only pleasure I was to find in my alcoholic home. Then later, at age eight I would dose my self with Dramamine, knocking me out in the back seat on family road trips to Florida each year. Only to occasionally, sleepily raise my head to say,

“Wake me for meals.”

I had effectively found a way to get to Florida without having to endure my parents.

Too chubby for my mother, at twelve, I’d been taken to the doctor for ‘diet pills.’ The crazed appetite suppressing, speed demon effect didn’t stand a chance at stopping me from binging after school on doughnuts, root beer and ice cream.

These were my secret pleasures and my only defense against my fairly anorexic mother who so desperately tried to control my caloric intake.

Drugs, food addiction, more drugs.

Whatever became of this child?

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