Summary

The author reflects on the intergenerational impact of societal beauty standards and eating disorders, initially blaming her mother for instilling harmful weight-centric values but later recognizing the broader societal influence and feeling empathy for her mother's own struggles.

Abstract

The author shares a personal narrative about growing up in an environment where her mother's preoccupation with weight and body image significantly influenced her own self-worth and led to an eating disorder. From a young age, the author learned that a woman's value is tied to her weight, observing her mother's satisfaction or shame based on the scale's reading. This early indoctrination manifested in disturbing behaviors, such as tracking her classmates' weights in fifth grade and feeling more accomplished by being the second lightest than by her academic achievements. As the author matured, she realized that her mother was not the sole source of these issues; rather, they were perpetuated by societal norms and possibly genetic factors. The healing process involved understanding her mother's own victimhood within these societal pressures and recognizing that her mother did not invent eating disorders. The author's journey led to empathy for her mother and relief for her own recovery, acknowledging that her mother, like all parents, has flaws but also recognizing the role of the internet and body positivity movement in her path to healing.

Opinions

The author initially held her mother responsible for her eating disorder due to the early lessons and behaviors modeled around weight and body image.
The author acknowledges that her mother's actions, while damaging, were likely well-intentioned and a reflection of societal expectations.
The author expresses regret for the missed joy in her life due to the overwhelming obsession with calories and scales.
The author recognizes that her mother's struggles with body image and dieting were likely influenced by the same societal pressures that affected her

I Blamed My Mom For My Eating Disorder — Now I Blame Society for Hers

Age teaches us that our parents don’t know everything

Calories and scales have been part of my life since before I could read. Every morning I’d watch my mom step onto the bathroom scale. Sometimes she would smile with satisfaction. Other times she would bow her head with shame. The response determined how the rest of our day was going to go.

It’s a mother's job to teach her daughter how to survive in this world, so I received special lessons that my brothers didn’t. I know they were well-intentioned, but the only way I can accurately describe the unintentional indoctrination now is damaging.

The most drilled in of these lessons was that a woman’s worth is tied to her weight. The message was hard-wired into my brain by watching my mom act in ways that became my warped reference point of normal. She would happily announce when she skipped a meal like it was a badge of honor. She envied women who were skinnier than her. She was grateful when she saw women that were fatter than her.

She did also teach me that the number on the scale isn’t everything — but only because BMI is dependent on both weight and height.

“She’s 140 pounds,” my mom said referring to a family friend whose weight she had probably guessed with alarming accuracy. “She looks skinnier than me even though I’m 120 pounds because she is a lot taller than me.”

I looked at her in amazement, learning the detailed science of body image obsession. “I hope I grow tall so I can be skinny.”

“You will probably be short like your mom.” She was right.

By the time I was old enough to go to school, I knew two things for certain: skinny is good and fat is bad. I was already obsessed with weight. Looking back, this obsession manifested in straight-up disturbing behaviors.

In the fifth grade, the whole class had to take a physical exam. One component was a BMI test. Each of us had to step on the scale. I remember dying to know my classmates’ weights. After each girl returned from class after taking the test, I’d ask her what her weight was. Then I recorded it on a piece of notebook paper until I had accumulated an organized spreadsheet of every single girl in my fifth-grade class’s weight.

I’m sure that if I had known about statistical analysis back then, I would have found the standard deviation and done a regression test as well.

I learned I was the second lightest girl in the class. The only girl who weighed less than me was shorter than me, so I figured she didn’t count. That knowledge filled me with an unfamiliar sense of achievement that I would soon become addicted to.

In my teenage years, I learned from ‘woke’ Tumblr posts that there was something very wrong with my behavior. But by that point I was already in too deep. Calories and scales consumed my life. They were all I thought about.

When I think back to my youth, even the happy moments feel overshadowed by my secret obsession. I look at pictures where I’m smiling at an amusement park. What I remember more than the rides is freaking out that my friend had generously bought me a churro. A greasy, fatty, sugar-coated churro was my most prominent memory of the happiest place on earth.

I felt no joy when I got the highest score on my A.P. Calculus exam because I felt too much shame for eating a cupcake at lunch that day. My first date ended abruptly in a confusing, awkward silence because eating in front of him was too overwhelming. Endless headaches, constantly exhausted, isolating secretiveness — every day was a blur.

And when I wanted to get better, I didn't know how.

All the anger I felt turned into hatred towards my mother. I felt robbed. She was the one who imposed this way of life on me.

In all fairness, the media and every aspect of society imposed this damaging mindset on me too. And looking at my family history, I’m sure there must have also been genetic factors at play. But moms are just so easy to blame.

During my recovery, I kept her an arm’s length away. Her constantly dangerous dieting advice and comments about my appearance disguised as concern filled me with too much resentment.

“How can you say these things like they’re normal?” I wanted to scream.

Healing came with the realization that my mom didn’t invent eating disorders. Now when I see these behaviors in my mother, I feel something much different from anger.

I feel empathy. I feel immense sadness for her, but most of all I feel immense relief for myself.

Age teaches us that our parents don’t know everything. They have huge flaws just like us. I recognized and worked hard to correct my flaws, but what if I hadn’t had the internet or been a teenager during the bod-positivity movement?

Would I have ever sought help or ever recognized that there was something very wrong with my behavior? Or would I have lived my entire life controlled by my eating disorder? Would I have had a daughter someday and passed it onto her?