What they were saying, basically, was that no one could ever love me because I was fat. I can’t even begin to describe how painful that was. And that was before I even hit my teens
O besity is in my genes. My grandmother was liberated from Auschwitz weighing 140 pounds — twice what other people weighed. My entire family is heavy. We like food. My sisters and I are always exchanging recipes and talking about what we’re making for Shabbos. Every occasion — Shabbos Yom Tov a siyum a birthday party — is invariably celebrated with lots of good food.
Yet at the same time because weight is a chronic problem in my family I’ve always felt pressure to eat less and lose weight. At eight years old I was ushered bewildered into Weight Watchers. At 11 my mother took me a psychologist to fix my dangerous relationship with food. I detested having to go to a shrink and after the first session I refused to go back.
For lunch in school I brought whole-wheat tuna sandwiches from home while my friends munched on the school kitchen’s calorie-laden macaroni and cheese. To get even I raided the freezer and pantry behind my parents’ backs stuffing my face with rugelach and cookies.
When I was still in elementary school well-meaning relatives clucked about how I could possibly get married if I was so fat. “You have a beautiful face Nechama ” they would tell me. “When is the rest of you going to match it?”
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