Morsels

I've developed a novel kind of anorexia. Instead of an aversion to the ingestion of food, I am loath to all the steps that lead up to the act of ingestion, and all the aftermath.

There was this sci-fi romance (by 亦舒 Isabel Nee) I read around age 14 which left an indelible mark on me. In the story, a woman from the future gets transported to the 1980's by accident. Amongst refreshing nuances including subtle yet empowering feminism, one anecdote struck me hard and has stuck with me all these years: when our heroine complains about how time-consuming eating is (in the dark ages that are the 1980's), and therefore it is inefficient, and uncivilized. Progress will mean that everybody takes nutrient-packed pills daily instead of traditionally prepared meals. Well-calibrated, no hit-or-miss. The time you save (which is enormous over a lifetime) can be spent on being productive instead. It's a giant step for humankind.

At the time, I thought, "Not TASTING food? Not savoring it? Nonsense!" This astronaut diet held no appeal. If that was where the future had in store, I didn't want to get there.

Fast forward to passing my prime (well over "middle age"). These days, eating does seem a chore. An onerous one at that. Everyday, when hunger returns, I lament, "Again?" I put off doing anything about it until absolutely famished. And at that point I don't care much about what I am putting in my body. I just want it quick and over with.

For some years I dabbled in cooking. There was joy in the process of discovery and creation. I've lost that altogether. It all seems pointless now.

My relationship with food has never been great (no surprise, as most women, cross cultures, grapple with implications of food in regard to their body image). Food became the enemy at some point, something you constantly had to watch with great caution. I am happy to report that I stopped hating my body relatively early on, and stopped obsessing over thinness overall. Food was something to look forward to: make it to lunch, and the rest of the day can't be long. I always make a point to be in the moment when I am eating. To enjoy.

Not to say that I no longer enjoy food, but even reheating food can feel like such a burden these days.

What happened? Is it still a simple case of not loving myself enough? Just a different manifestation? Is it my resurging depression, fast and furious? Same monster, different bite?

Maybe I merely miss being taken care of, being served. I have been known to semi-joke that no food tastes as good as when someone else makes it for you.

Maybe a life that has no purpose does not seem to deserve to be nourished and extended.

I used to think that enlightenment was a destination. If one reads a lot, pays keen attention, there is only one truth, and you arrive at it one day, and you're done. Imagine my disappointment finding out you never stop learning, never stop struggling, and worst yet, truth might be just interpretation. Oh, the horror!

And we are supposed to find solace in the knowledge that everyone experiences pain, and this shared pain makes us human and connected.

I may be finding myself more disconnected than ever. Maybe I have stopped trying. 

The more I read, the more I wind up with questions than answers.

How do you end a piece like this? You don't.

Lamb

On my last visit, I had a very surreal, powerfully emotional moment with my Mom.

At age 87, my Mom's strength and stamina was waning fast. Some of the rituals parents and child used to share and cherish could no longer be had.

Every night, after dinner, watching stupid shows on TV was how we used to bond. Because it was easier to share opinions on things that didn't matter than to share deep thoughts about real life.

I observed that, even when my Mom could manage the couch for a bit of time before she had to retire, quite early in the evening, I felt very reluctant to actually sit next to her. It just didn't feel natural.

My relationship with her had always been fraught. Every time she opened her mouth to speak to me, I cringed and braced myself, "What critical, hurtful words will I hear now?"

We just never had that kind of loving closeness that I read about that other mothers and daughters have.

Even when I realized that every visit could be our last reunion, I could not bring myself to sit with her. I'd pull a chair up and situate it close to the couch where she was sitting. But the thought of actually sitting beside her on the couch itself brought on great anxiety.

Of course, this led to gnawing guilt. 

Until the last day, when it was time for me to fly back, to being, again, 7,000 miles away from my aging parents.

I sat down next to my Mom on the couch then. There was a look of innocence about her, childlike, a bit lost. I was touched. Allowing love to take over, I put my arms around her, and I kissed her on the cheek, multiple times, while bidding her farewell in a consoling manner. I talked to her as if I was the parent and she was the child, as if I was leaving for work, and I wanted her to know that she was loved, that she was not being abandoned, that it was just something I had to do.

She raised her bony hand and caressed me on the arm in our gentle embrace. She never said a word, just a wan smile. I squeezed her a bit tighter. It was real.

That was positively the single most tender, intimate moment we had ever shared. When we (my brother and I) were little, our parents and we hugged and kissed plenty. Somehow, with distance and time, we'd grown out of it. We'd forgotten how. It'd become awkward.

Sometimes I think about all the love that had been lost. But I'd like to remember that, the love was always there, just under the surface, even when we couldn't or didn't know how to express it.

And that was enough.