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Child Abuse Story
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 On My Own Terms, A Memoir is my child abuse story, a story that details abuse at the hands of both my mother and father. My story clearly shows the residual effects of child abuse, effects that many abuse survivors exhibit.One of many such effects for me was morbid obesity. I ate volumes of food. I couldn't stop eating, because when I ate, I no longer had to deal with the painful memories. But the insatiable binging had its own painful effects...
My weight ballooned. Queen-sized panty hose—the largest available—were no longer adequate. The graph on the cardboard packaging reflected they would fit someone 5' 10" up to 210 lbs. But now that I was two hundred forty-five pounds, the crotch of my pantyhose sat about six inches above my knees. Without protection, my inner thighs chafed and bled from constant rubbing. I slathered Vaseline on the open sores to act as a protective barrier. The neighborhood pharmacist could have cured the ailment with a special ointment, but I wouldn't risk his chiding. A feminine discharge left a thick yellow residue on my panties, which made me smell like freshly kneaded bread dough. My doctor would have given me a prescription, but I wouldn't chance his condemnation. The bingeing escalated. I phoned different restaurants outside my suburban boundaries to avoid facing the same deliverymen night after night. I knew if the order was too small for two people but too large for one the restaurant staff would know it was for my consumption alone. I hid this by ordering enough for a group. "Bill would probably like garlic bread with that," I told the voice on the other end of the line. "Suzy can share the noodles with Karen, and I'll have an extra large seafood salad for myself. And oh yes, a half dozen Pepsi for us to share." I paid for the delivery with my Chargex (now Visa) card, just like I'd done every weekend since receiving the card a month before. Take-out had already absorbed almost my entire five-hundred-dollar credit limit. I placed the four containers on the end table next to the recliner, beside what was left of the pizza and Chinese food I had already ordered from two other restaurants. I tried to delay gratification by counting, but I didn't get passed five. I tore off a slice of pizza from its soggy cardboard tray and devoured it on the way to the television. Only two stations aired all night, so I turned the dial to one of them. In an hour I wouldn't be able to move, let alone get up to relieve myself. On the way to the bathroom, I reached for another slice. In the living room again: Food. Wonderful, glorious food. I wolfed it down. And when my body fought not to swallow, I held onto the armrests of my chair to prepare my chest and stomach for the half-chewed mouthfuls. No texture. No pleasure. No taste. And as the memories resurfaced, I imprisoned them into the pit of my gut. I didn't stop until the last bite refused to be ingested. It was another night spent in my recliner. I woke up fighting for breath. My sternum felt ready to split wide open. The gastric juices hadn't finished assimilating last night's midnight binge. There was a foul, rancid taste at the back of my throat. My inflated stomach threatened to purge its contents. I'd stopped weighing myself at two-sixty-five. Three Mondays ago, the scale disclosed I had gained ten pounds over the weekend, the same as the weekend before. I didn't need to step on the scale today to know how much I had gained this weekend and every other weekend in between. I must be at least three hundred pounds. "I don't want to die!" I cried out.
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