I apparently have an unhealthy relationship with food. After not having much of it for a majority of my life, now that I can afford to eat 3 meals a day I usually make those meals way to big, to the point where I make myself sick a lot.

My wife pointed out that I always need to be watching something while I eat and it’s likely me trying to ignore the fact that I’m constantly panic eating as much food as possible.

I also can’t stand when people talk to me or look at me while I’m eating, especially in any sort of company. My wife says I’m like a rabid dog when we go out and tries to remind me that no ones going to come up and take my food away from me. But just this evening my toddler snatched the last chocolate cookie litterally out of my mouth, although to be fair I did the same thing to him with a piece of plastic he was trying to eat a few minutes earlier.

Anyway there’s my somewhat related take.

When I was 7 my moms boyfriend was beating her to a pulp. I was sure he was going to kill her this time.

I wholeheartedly believed I could overpower him and save her so I grabbed a toy hockey stick and ran over. All it took was one measly swing from a scrany, malnourished kid and all his attention on me. That’s all I got in before I realized how wrong I was, followed by watching my mom run out the back door. I knew in my heart she wasn’t leaving to get help and I was right.

I’ve gone through a lot before and after that but I’ve never been more horrified than that very moment. I remember the horror leave me shortly after when I was certain I wouldn’t see tomorrow.