Put on a diet at six weeks old - guest post from adoptee Cat Theresa

I've known that I've an unhealthy relationship with food all my life but I've only attended to it this past month at the grand age of 53. Prior to that I ignored it, pretending that my behaviours are normal and shared by others.

I'm super-good at normalising unusual behaviour as a way of avoiding uncomfortable emotions. But in reality there is nothing normal about hiding stashes of food around the house - little packets of food nestle in my knicker drawer, desk drawers, behind the microwave, tucked under the potato bag. When these stashes get low, I feel uncomfortable, slightly agitated. Once they're replenished my system calms slightly. But only until the next drop in supply. I take little hidden supplies on all trips with me, often stocking up in train station shops 'for the journey'. I cram eat these stashes when I'm alone especially during periods of stress. Chocolates and biscuits all get consumed quickly, often with a raised heart beat, breathlessly chewing, swallowing and biting off more. As though the freedom to eat is about to be taken away from me.

This feels shameful. I feel ashamed of myself for doing it but I also know there's strength in recognition and openness. Why does food hoarding and cramming feel so compulsive to me? I'm on a pathway to untangle the reasons for this behaviour but not yet fully there and certainly unable to change things yet.  I think the key will come through exploring my early relationship with food and my adoption experience. I was put on my first diet at 6 weeks old. My adoptive mother has told this story in my hearing so many times it's etched into my memory.

When they picked me up from the Adoption Agency I was 99th percentile for weight and 50th for height. A major imbalance. My little tubby cheeks looked to be swallowing my eyes. Apparently my Grandmother's first comment when she saw me was, "She'll improve with keeping". That's also part of the family tale. As is the fact that from day one of my placement my Adoptive Mum watered down all my feeds from 9 scoops of powder in a 9 fl oz bottle to 8. That was the diet. As a Community Paediatrician she clearly felt an urgent need to address my weight issue.

I'm not unhappy with her that she focused on my health. But I'm angry for that 6 week-old baby that this action was taken at that time. Food was my main source of comfort and especially important at a time when I'd made a huge transition from the familiarity of the Mother & Baby Home to my new unfamiliar adoptive home. So it seems intensely cruel to change my feeds at that time, rather than 3 months down the road. My feeds were watered down and less nourishing at a time when I most needed comfort. I can't understand that decision. When our dog came to live with us he was on a cheap, basic dog food - we waited several weeks before we switched his food to a healthier version. Of course we did - he was nervous and shy in our home, smelling everything and cowering at any loud noise. He needed familiarity from wherever he could get it until he was settled. 

I'm also unhappy that this became a family story and that I got classed as the 'tubby one' while my non-bio brother was the 'skinny one'. My intake of sweet & carby food was restricted, whereas he was free to eat whatever he liked. My Mum proudly tells people that I'm as healthy as I am as an adult, because I was never given puddings as a child. I say nothing. What I want to scream is maybe I'm as screwed up as I am because I was never given puddings as a child. If I wasn't screwed up about food I would be able to enjoy a pudding in a restaurant like everyone else. Instead I decline saying I'm full, then watch everyone else eat their puddings, perhaps sneaking a taste with the spare spoon I've asked the waiter for, but never fully indulging. Until I get home when I sneak off to one of my stashes. If I wasn't screwed up about food I'd be able to eat cake with friends in a cafe 'normally'. That is without guilt gnawing away at me.

Maybe it's the guilt that has me cutting any cake I do eat with friends, into sections - dainty little pieces that I eat slowly as though I daren't launch into the whole cake in case someone catches me enjoying it. That's what happens when you put a newly adopted baby on a diet at 6 weeks old and bring her up in a restricted eating environment. 

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

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Thank you to Cat Theresa for this honest and reflective post. Please leave your comments below and I’ll pass them on. You can also contact Cat on Twitter.