I sometimes wonder what my first experiences with food might have looked like. Did I have the chance to be nursed by my Korean mother? If so, what was the frequency, duration and how did the feeding session end? I can't help but think that the nursing experiences I had with my own daughter were dramatically different than those between me and my Korean mother, assuming that she was able to breastfeed me at all.
What was my first experience with nourishment outside the womb really like? If not my mother's milk, did I have water, formula or something else? Was I able to eat until I felt satisfied? How long was it between the time that my body cried out for food until that need was met? Did I feel like it was enough or that it was taken away from me too soon? Were the feeding intervals or quantities so erratic that it altered my entire approach toward food - from the speed in which I'd consume it to the ability to fully trust my body's signals to know what true satiety really felt like?
After my body started to process the separation from my Korean mother, was food somehow used as a means to comfort me? Did I start to unconsciously use food to help assuage the pain, trauma and fear that permeated my body as my new reality and surroundings started to take shape? Did I learn that food could be depended on, unlike the revolving door of people in and out of my life: from my Korean family to the people who found me on the steps of a police station to the social workers at the agency to a new foster family, only then to be handed to another person who escorted me on the plane who then delivered me to yet another set of strangers with whom I had no prior history?
Was food used by my adoptive parents to show their love, their gratitude and as a way to connect with the baby they had longed for so many years? (My mom has often remarked what a good eater I was from the minute I was brought home.) Was food inadvertently used as an attempt to soothe, to heal and perhaps even make up for what they thought I had lacked (food or otherwise) prior to my arrival? Was the abundance of the food and the willingness to dispense it at any opportunity their way to assure me that I would never again have to worry about having my basic needs met?
So I ponder these hypotheticals, both for me and my son; some questions I am able to provide answers for, but most of them I cannot.
I think about these possible scenarios because I believe strongly that many adoptees are susceptible to developing a less than healthy relationship with food because of both past experiences as well as the lingering effects from the life-changing events that have occured.
Hear me out. I've long believed that so many of us in the general population use food as a means to exert a modicum of control in our lives when we feel that we have no real power of our own accord. While it's true that no infant has any power over the circumstances of his or her birth and subsequent upbringing, most children do not grow up with the knowledge that they are not being raised by the people who brought them into this world. Whatever reasons that are given for the child's relinquishment and adoption, one thing remains constant: What happened was completely out of the child's control. And that can be a very scary and daunting realization for a young person. I think the same could be said for other traumas beyond one's control including the death of a loved one, divorce, an accident or illness. But when we're talking about adoption specifically, when something so profound such as losing your parents is arguably one of the core touchstones of your identity, it's not surprising that the feelings of fear, confusion, resentment and helplessness could manifest itself into unhealthy interactions with food, drugs, alcohol, physical intimacy, sleep or other mediums that one can control, or thinks that he can control.
Of course, we all know that food is also used for so much more than providing sheer sustenance: We use food to distract us from a host of different emotions; we use it to alleviate the bad and to accentuate the good. This is another reason why I believe many adoptees are susceptible to using food; it becomes a powerful and effective diversion from having to feel or fully experience the raw and painful feelings that their histories of relinquishment and adoption may bring forth.
Most children are not asked to comprehend at such a young age why their first parents could not keep and raise them. Feelings of inadequacy, shame, guilt, anger and unworthiness are all very real and extremely powerful emotions to have at any age - but especially if you're a child who doesn't possess the language or perhaps hasn't yet been given an appropriate outlet to fully process and express these feelings. It's so easy, convenient and most of all - socially acceptable - to use food to help make these scary feelings go away, or at least to distract us enough to where we don't have to think about the circumstances that led us to where we are today. I'm not suggesting it's as obvious or as simple as a child saying to herself "Hey, I'm thinking about my Korean mom, but that makes me feel too bad, so instead I'm going to go eat a pan of brownies." Rather, I'm saying that based on personal experiences, I know that the air of adoption in one's life can at times be so stifling, so foggy and so overwhelming that it can be too much and far too frightening to take on by oneself. Food can help. Food does not judge, does not ask uncomfortable questions or ask for anything in return. And most of all, food is always there.
Which brings me to my next point in why I think many adoptees have an additional challenge in managing a healthy relationship with food. The losses in adoption cannot be overstated. It can literally make a child sick to think about who she has lost and who she will lose in the future, regardless of the reassurance that aims to placate those fears. I was fortunate to grow up in a home where our food supply was never in question, but I believe I eventually used that knowledge to assure myself that in a life filled with uncertainty, change and events beyond my control - and beyond my comprehension for that matter - that food was one constant that I could forever depend on being there no matter what. Food wasn't going to get into a car crash and render me an orphan once more. Food wasn't going to say that it loved me so much that it now had to give me away. Food was everywhere I needed it and wanted it to be. Many times it filled a void that I could not articulate, other times it filled a void that I didn't want to think about at all. Food filled the voids I felt were missing in my life and it filled the voids that I knew were missing in the deepest parts of myself. Food comforted me when I felt too ashamed, too embarrassed and too ungrateful to be feeling these voids in the first place.
My last point in my theory about food and adoptees has to do with the relentess, intense pursuit of perfection that many adoptees engage upon. Many adoptees live with the burden of knowing that they were neither set of parents first choice and in an attempt to reconcile this knowledge, they try to be perfect in every facet of their lives. Perfect grades, perfect behavior, perfect manners. And perfect bodies. It's easy to see how food can be manipulated to help achieve on the outside what one wants so desperately to be on the inside.
Please understand that I'm not at all suggesting that every adoptee is going to have an issue with food. I know plenty of non-adopted persons who struggle with their relationship with food and I know plenty of adoptees for whom food is a non-issue entirely. What I hope to impart by sharing part of my story and personal beliefs on the subject is that perhaps it will bring a heightened awareness to a family or an adoptee for whom food has the potential of being used as more than just nutrients on a plate.
Because of my own personal challenges with how I have related to food, I perhaps am more aware of the potential warning signs that exist with one's interaction with food - both for my daughter (non-adopted) as well as my son, who is adopted. While I don't actively search for or artificially create situations to make food become an issue, I am extremely conscientious of my own behaviors and language surrounding food. I don't use food as a "There, there sweetie. Have a cookie and you'll feel all better" coping mechanism. I make sure to provide my kids - but especially my son - with ample situations where he does feel that he has a choice and some semblance of control (appropriately measured of course). On-going adoption conversations which are age, developmentally and emotionally appropriate are very much a part of our lives. We don't shy away from tough or uncomfortable topics, adoption or otherwise. Let's face it: Our kids will have struggles throughout their lives, no matter what we do or don't do. I want to give my kids the tools to self-regulate and self-soothe in a way that has nothing to do with food or other external measures.
I realize that there are so many other factors and variables - both internal and external - that come into play when talking about food and adoption and I don't pretend to be a therapist or expert on the topic. Some families or adoptees may have experienced or are able to relate to what I've shared; for many it simply does not - nor will not apply. But for those who have struggled or are facing their own challenges with food as it relates to adoption, please know that you are not alone and that it is okay to talk about it.
The need to control, the need to find and feel permanency, the need to fill a void, the need to be perfect and the desire to separate from the pain are all very real issues for many adoptees. If we can focus on recognizing, addressing and talking about these things in an honest and relevant manner that can actually help adoptees, perhaps food won't be used as the crutch that it was for me and others out there like me.
