So picture this, growing up in the middle of 9 children and yet not feeling like belonging. I was a redhead surrounded by brunettes. Granted Larry had reddish hair but he was so much older than I and by the time I got old enough to notice his hair was already more sandy coloured whilst mine was RED. Also, everyone else tanned and my skin was white white white. It was not unusual for me to be standing in the middle of my brothers and sisters and have someone ask me who I was, assuming that I was not a Moffatt. This has always stayed with me because I remember with a lot of fondness those adults who not only knew I was a Moffatt but also knew my first name. I raise this because it was one of the first things that started my feelings of separation from ‘family’. Surely not you say, how could anyone who has 5 brothers and 3 sisters feel separate from them? There must be things you had in common. Well, let’s see, some of them were musical, could sing and/or play instruments. I can’t carry a tune and can’t play anything. Some could dance (we’re talking tap dance, ballet, etc) and while I love to dance I’m not exactly coordinated. Some were athletic, but I do well to walk and talk at the same time. Some are artistic, I have difficulty drawing stick people.
Likely none of this would have made much of an impact but I was sick for much of my childhood, separating me even further as I spent so much time alone. A strong early memory was being on my own in the Toronto Sick Kids Hospital. With 8 other children at home of course it would have been impossible for either of my parents to have stayed with me.
So what is my point? I guess that I’m coming to realize that the separation of me from the rest of my family has continued, mostly due to my own actions. Even more, I’ve separated myself from the institution of Family. I made the decision not to have children, not something that I regret but is not completely understood by anyone else in my family. I even went so far as to move several provinces away. For many years I didn’t cook and at every family gathering I was the one who brought pickles and buns. It wasn’t that I couldn’t cook but that everyone else could.
What has all this to do with weight? I’m not 100% sure but I am beginning to suspect that I need to keep following this line of thought. After all, if it’s not about food then I have to figure out what it is about.
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