Read an Excerpt
Give Yourself Permission to Shine
Through Faith I Found Love
By Grace King
Balboa Press
Copyright © 2012 Grace King
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4525-4868-5
Chapter One
I remember the moment when I first realized that I was bulimic. I was in my mother's house, in the bathroom, and I had just made myself vomit my food down the basin drain and quickly pushed it down with running water. I felt both excitement and fear. I had just started a new chapter in my life, but I had no true idea of what I was getting myself into. I was sixteen years old.
I am now thirty-four, and I have been recovered since December 19, 2003, just over nine years. I have had one relapse, after miscarrying my first baby. I am telling my story, and sharing my victory, with the hope that I may help someone who is going through what I went through. If I can reach out to help one person, then my pain and suffering would have been worth it. Please note that some of the information in this book may be triggering, but it is not intended to be harmful in any way.
I'll begin with sharing some background on my childhood. I was born and raised in Johannesburg, South Africa. I was an only child, raised by my mother. My memories of childhood are filled with an abundance of love, especially from my mother, my grandmother and grandfather, my aunties and cousins. However, there was also a subconscious sadness; a sadness that I would have denied. I never knew my father. Not by choice. He chose not to know me. When he found out my mother was pregnant, at eighteen, he left her, as it would have disgraced his religion, and he was not willing to take responsibility. So my mother had me just before her nineteenth birthday.
I remember meeting him once; I must have been about two or three. I remember my mom getting us ready and prepared for this "big day." "You are going to meet your dad today," Mom said, so I put on my best dress and the house was in perfect order. I don't remember his face, although I do remember his presence. What I do remember is my mom and him talking, probably more like arguing. He took twenty rand out of his wallet, threw it on the table, and said, "Buy the child some food," and walked out. I never saw him again.
Growing up, I never really missed my dad. My mom was always very open and honest with me about him and what had happened and why he wasn't around. When I was ready, she would help me find him. I didn't feel a great need for him, as I had everything I needed: my mom, my grandma, my grandpa, and there was certainly never a shortage of love and affection in our family. Although there was, at times, a shortage of food and money.
As a young child, having a shortage of food and money didn't really matter to me, as I didn't understand what that meant. All I knew was that if I was hungry, there was something for me to eat, even if it was only a slice of bread or a bowl of pasta, and a glass of milk. I always had something to eat. Only as I got older and became more aware of what was going on did I realize that we had less than others in way of materialistic things, as well as much less food in our house. We very rarely could afford to go away on beach holidays or places outside of our home town.
Now I realize that being "money poor" in my childhood was a blessing in disguise. It has taught me the wonderful quality of gratitude, appreciation, and the humility of counting my blessings every day, for everything, big and small, in my life. My family and I were brought up knowing that even though we didn't have much, there was always someone else who had less than us, so we had a lot to be thankful for. We knew our greatest blessing was that we had each other. So perhaps you could say we were "poor in money" but we were "rich in love"!
Chapter Two
When I was about nine, I wrote my dad a letter. My mom always encouraged me to seek the truth and look for my dad when I was ready. I wrote to him to say that I wanted to meet him and get to know him as my dad, even if it was only one time, nothing more. I said I didn't want any money from him, just to look in his eyes and see what he looked like, so that at least I could say that I knew my father and so that I could identify with that part of me. Anyone that knew my dad, and had met me, always said that I looked so much like him. I wanted to see that too! I included a photo of myself in the letter. My mom posted it.
We went to the place my mom suggested we meet at, the Yugoslav Club, and we waited for hours. He never showed up. Later that week, my mother got a phone call from my dad. He said, "It was your fault you fell pregnant, she's your mistake, and I want nothing to do with her!" He sent the letter and the photos back to my mom. I can't really remember exactly how I felt, but I remember feeling disappointed. My mom always made me feel like it was his loss that he didn't want to be a part of my life. I never felt liked I "lacked" a dad, because I was so spoilt with an abundance of love from my mom and my family that it never seemed like he was missing. I must have numbed the pain.
There was a bizarre time when I met my dad's brother, Barto. My mom was angry at my dad for hurting me after he had sent my letter and photos back to her and after his phone call to my mom saying it was her mistake to have fallen pregnant and her decision to have kept me, so my mom decided to be hard with him. After all, he had not taken any responsibility for me in any way. She filed for child support from him, only to discover that there was already another child support charge against him. He was ordered to appear in court to plead his case but he did not show up. A warrant went out for his arrest. The police served the warrant at his brother's work place by mistake. They had the same initials and obviously the same last name, so that is how the police made that mistake.
Uncle Barto told the police he wasn't sure where my dad was. He hadn't seen him in a long time. He would let them know if he turned up. He said he would be happy to call my mother and speak to her, as he felt he held some responsibility for his brother. My uncle had known about me through the grapevine. He called my mom and agreed to meet with me.
It was a strange day. I wasn't sure how I felt. My mom was excited that I was meeting Uncle Barto, but I really wasn't; he wasn't my dad, and my dad still did not want to meet me. We met Barto and his wife at a restaurant. His wife was German and didn't speak English. When Barto saw me, he gave me a big hug. I felt quite indifferent. Barto was not my dad. There seemed to be some confusion; Barto's wife seemed to think that I was Barto's child and that my mom and Barto had been lovers in the past. Apparently, according to her, I looked just like Barto. I remember my mom making quite the effort to explain to her that this was not the case, that I was Barto's brother's child, and that he did not want to know me, and so Barto had taken that responsibility on himself. She did not believe it. She was convinced I was Barto's child, she said the resemblance was too strong and she felt extremely hurt that she was sitting with my mom at the table, who she was totally convinced was at some point "the other woman." The language barrier was quite a challenge, and the whole experience was extremely emotional for everyone, except me.
Everyone was crying and in tears, holding hands and talking about me. I felt totally out of place. My dad still did not want to see me, and it was not my dad sitting at the table with me. I felt numb.
At the end of lunch, we all left the table and walked out of the restaurant. Barto hugged me and gave me his telephone number, saying that if I ever needed anything, I should call him. He also gave me fifty Rand. I said thank you and smiled, knowing I most probably would never call him. I never spoke to Uncle Barto or saw him again. I later found out about two years later, that he committed suicide. What a mystery; I wondered why he felt he couldn't cope with his life anymore and if I could've helped make a difference to his destiny.
In hindsight, I probably should have been more open to meeting my uncle; at least I would've known someone from my dad's side of the family. And who knows, if I had gotten close enough to Uncle Barto, perhaps I would've met my father. But at the time I was a stubborn teenager, who thought I knew what was best for me, and if it wasn't my dad I was getting to know, it didn't seem to matter. But I guess unfortunately now I will never know.
Looking back now, I realize that I carried a lot of pain from my dad's rejection and a lot of guilt about my dad leaving us. Although it still feels like I never felt the pain, as I was in denial about it most of my childhood, I must have felt it on a subconscious level. The feeling of rejection and abandonment only set in later on in my life. It developed into a fear of being rejected and abandoned. I still have not met my father, but I would really love to, to know him and make peace with him. Perhaps if I were to pray for him often enough, and find truth and acceptance in my need for him, perhaps our paths will cross one day. Maybe he yearns to meet me too. I can only hope that he will find hope and courage in his heart, and with that faith, he too can find his way to make amends with me, his daughter. Perhaps this book will somehow bring us together; who knows? Anything is possible!
I was very fortunate to have my wonderful grandparents in my life, especially throughout my childhood, who gave me lots of nurturing love and support. My grandma is very special to me, and we have always been very close. She has always shared her wisdom with me and taught me about patience and kindness and persistence. She has always been tender and loving and understanding. Then there was my granddad. He was actually not my biological grandfather; my grandmother had remarried, so he was my step-grandpa, but the only one I ever knew throughout my early childhood (my mom only found her biological father in her midthirties, when I was about fifteen). Since I was a baby, Grandpa was always there for me. He became the father figure I never had. He was not able to have any children of his own, so I became the daughter he never had. We had a very special and very close bond up until his death.
Chapter Three
I was always a high achiever at school. I got good grades, was a school prefect, excelled at sport, took part in school concerts, and was generally a good all-rounder. I loved sport and took part in tennis, netball, softball, and basketball. I never had a weight problem and had a very healthy appetite. Well, my appetite was quite huge actually; my mom used to joke with me and say that I could "eat most men under the table," quite an odd saying, but what she meant was that I often ate more than some grown men did. I had a fast metabolism and was fortunate enough that I could eat what I wanted and remained at a steady weight. I was quite a healthy eater, though, enjoyed my fruit and vegetables and whole grains, which made it easy. But looking back, I also realize that I was an emotional eater, which I still am today. I remember friends saying to me, "Gosh, you never stop eating," which in a way is still true today. I loved food (who doesn't?), and food was nourishment, but also "recreation," for want of a better word. So I became known for my big appetite.
There were two very specific times when I had overeaten and felt like my stomach was going to burst. One specific occasion, I was with my friend Brooke. She had joined me at a softball function, and there was always such a wonderful variety of tasty foods to try. And of course, I had to try them all! So I did, and by the end of the evening, I was in pain. Then Brooke suggested, no doubt wanting to end my complaining about how sore my stomach was from being so full, "Why don't you just stick your fingers down your throat and make yourself vomit? Then you'll feel better."
I said, "No, I can't do that." And I didn't. Not that night.
Another time, I was at school, and it was my class's turn to organize a cake and candy fundraiser, where we had to sell an assortment of treats to eat, like cakes and biscuits and sweets, and popcorn and hot dogs, that type of thing, to raise money for the school. Each class got a turn. When it's your class's turn, it's a tradition that there are some "added benefits" of organizing the sale: you get to taste many of the treats before they are sold.
This particular day, my friend Maria and I had gone a little crazy and eaten way too many hot dogs and pieces of cake; we both complained about our bursting bellies. So Maria suggested, "Let's go stick our fingers down our throat." I said I couldn't do it, and she said, "We'll do it together." So off we went to the bathroom; she was in the cubicle next to me. I heard her doing it, succeeding. I tried but could not get my fingers down my throat far enough. I couldn't do it. Not that day.
Chapter Four
When I was growing up, I became friends with a girl named Charlie. We met at a corner shop, when I was about six years old; we lived in the same street. She was exceptionally beautiful. During our teenage years, everywhere we went, she would turn heads, and people would always comment on how beautiful she was. To me, she was beautiful, inside and out. We were best friends for all our childhood years; we were like sisters, we even pretended that we were cousins, and people believed us. We were family to us. I got used to all the boys wanting to be her boyfriend and just wanting to be my friend. That was understandable to me, she was certainly much prettier than me, and she had a small petite frame, with a slim body and big breasts, and she was very athletic too.
I don't think I understood the impact this would have on me later, though, that feeling of never being "good enough," feeling like I was always in her shadow. But we loved each other very much. At times I was envious of how beautiful and slim she was, and I often wished I could be like her, as she always got every boyfriend she wanted, and all the attention. But I was happy with me—most of the time. I had many "boy friends," whom I loved dearly and loved me back, and we had fun hanging out together. My mom always allowed my boyfriends to visit me at home, where she could get to know them too. I always loved that about her. Later in our high school years, Charlie left school and moved away from our town, and our friendship kind of faded for a while. We didn't see each other for some time. Our friendship returned for a few years and then dwindled again, and we lost contact for a few years.
I was very fortunate to have had many good friends in my life growing up. At school, I became very good friends with Kate, who moved to Melbourne, as her parents wanted to get away from our crime-infested country. I was emotionally destroyed by her leaving, but her family was extremely kind to me and flew me out to visit Kate in Australia for six weeks; it was the best vacation that I ever had. Kate and I are still very close friends today. She is my daughter's godmother.
At Kate's farewell party, I met a guy named Eric; he was about five years older than me. He kindly gave me a lift home that night from the party. We became best friends through my high school years. He was a bit crazy, but I loved him dearly. We did everything together. He became part of my family. He was like my big brother. I kept my bulimia from him for a long time, but it started to become obvious with my sickly, thin frame and huge portions I ate; it didn't add up. Eric confronted me about it and asked me if I was bulimic, but I denied it. He had also caught me stealing chocolate bars from his house. Our friendship took a lot of strain through my bulimic years, as I was not the person I had been before. I was lying and sneaking around and not taking care of myself, and in turn, my attitude toward others had changed. I was becoming more withdrawn all the time, and Eric did not like who I had become.
After about five years of our friendship, Eric came to my house in the middle of the night, drunk, to tell me he no longer wanted to be friends. I was devastated but tried not to show it. He said I had changed and that I was no longer the fun, happy, open, honest person I used to be; I had become deceitful, selfish, and withdrawn. He had tried but I was not willing to open up and be honest, and he had had enough. I remember him asking me if I thought he was only saying this because he was drunk, and I said yes. But I was in denial. I knew he was telling me the truth, but I didn't want to believe it. So I denied the truth and made myself believe that I had done nothing wrong and that he was just exaggerating. We never spoke again. I am deeply sorry for hurting Eric and destroying our friendship. I hope he can forgive me.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Give Yourself Permission to Shine by Grace King Copyright © 2012 by Grace King. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
