Trigger warning.

I have been at my parents for half an hour and my mother has not stop harassing me about buying my niece a donut. Me being too fat.

I ignored her but my anxiety was triggered when she kept insisting I was going to be sick.

She would stare at me in disgust and anger, then start in again about being fat, sick and “why bother with the blood pressure machine because it’s clear you don’t want to be healthy! You just want to have cancer again!”

Dinner was finally served. My mom made my favourite. A Mennonite dish.

I took one bite of the sausage and grimaced. I disliked the taste of the sausage. It wasn’t the usual kind. I took a bite of the noodles (German) and again disliked it. Too doughy. I pushed my plate aside.

“Do you want more?” My mom asked.

“It’s clear she doesn’t like it,” my dad answered “by the look on her face.”

“What?” My mother cried. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Oh she is picky!” My niece teased.

My sister snorted “Becky isn’t picky! She likes everything! She doesn’t like it because she isn’t eating it!”

My mother motioned to another kind of sausage “try this kind”

I already knew I wasn’t going to like it but I tried a small bite. I tried not to gag.

“I just don’t know what is wrong with you!” My mother huffed “I made your favourite! Fine, have some banana bread”

I took a slice. It was cut in half. Instantly, my mother glared at me. “Two pieces?!”

“Um one. It was cut in half” I sighed.

And that my dear folks is a case of gaslighting.


♥writing was all I had, all I’ve ever had, the only currency, the only proof that I was alive. Memory.♥ each of us has a story to tell. Leave your thoughts. Leave your comments.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.