The meat is not enough!

'Why are you cooking chicken in the oven, mum?' I asked earlier today.

'Because the meat is not enough!' came the answer, somewhere from within the vast apartment.

Today is Sunday and we had agreed to throw a few beef steaks on the barbie. It would be a good occasion to do this as I am leaving in a few days' time and this would be the last Sunday we could all celebrate together as a family. Furthermore, today would be the first day I could eat solids after my last fill.

At 11.35 am I already felt hungry. I had gotten up at 7.30 am when my daughter had sounded the alarm and had only had half a glass of chocolate milk and two rusks with some yellow cheese for breakfast.

I went into the kitchen, found the meat and poured a little bit of olive oil over it as it helps with grilling. There were many steaks in it, some of them united with a piece of fat. They were probably ribeye steaks. Anyway, once the preparation was done, I left them on the side and went to light the gas barbie. I must be the only one in my family who understands the principles of cooking on the barbie, so I knew it would take a good 15-20 minutes for the barbie to get sufficiently hot. Once it got hot, I put the steaks on, big flames ensued, I put the lid down and reduced the burners to the minimum setting, left it for 5 minutes, turned the steaks, turned off the gas and let them cook with the lid down. In another 5 minutes they were almost done, a perfect medium-rare with the juices glistening on top of the meat. As some members of my family like their steak well-done, I put the fire on for another couple of minutes and that crisped the underside of the steaks. Perfect! Or was it?

My younger brother informed me, as I was taking the meat indoors, that he was going for a walk and would eat later. Then my eldest brother decided he did not fancy eating at the veranda as it was too windy. No matter how I tried to reason with him that the wind was blowing the other side of the house, he was adamant that he would eat his lunch in his part of the apartment, alone. So that left mum, baby and me.

Mum made a comment about the meat. "What did you do with it, it seems so much more!" But it was still the same quantity she had bought, frozen and thawed - it is just she cannot really determine portions. Same as me. I had never realised that till the day the big love of my life made a comment about it. Then N. verified it by saying I was eating for two. We have always cooked for an army in my home so I never learned to limit the portions. And there had always been second helpings to which us, the kids, hurried towards, gulping our food without even swallowing lest we get left behind.

But why all these thoughts? Well, no sooner had we sat at the lonely table and I began feeding my daughter from my plate that mom came out with the most infuriating thing she has ever said.

"Now that you are going back, make sure you tell N. that we haven't been living off you, so he understands"

It took me a few seconds to realise what she had said. Then I blew my top off. I wasn't even aware how much her words had affected me until I felt a spasm in my stomach and my hand began trembling. Then I knew I was going to be sick and that it would be impossible to continue eating with her as if nothing had happened.

I rushed to the toilet, tears filling my eyes and had a PB. Then another. Then a third one. I sat on the toilet and felt miserable. Why can't we never have a quiet meal time in this house? Why has all my life been marked by stupid remarks, hatred, unconcealed emnity, jealousy and other negative feelings? I got up and turned on the hot water tap to rinse the bowl I had been using for the following PBs. I was so upset that after I had put the soapy bowl aside, I went and turned on the cold tap and Oouch! the hot water that had remained in the pipes scalded my hands and I screamed with pain. My brother asked what had gone on and I shouted back that I had just burned my hands. But as the apartment is vast, he heard 'I have cut my hands'. I struggled to convey the right message to him lest they thought I had attempted suicide. (As if I would give them that satisfaction!)

My mom was still in the veranda, asking if I would go and finish my food, telling my daughter to call me and coaxing her to eat her food. My brother was passing comments that I must have eaten something that had affected me. Fresh anger welled up in me.

So I would like to make a public statement: Mother, you have fucked up my life, you have fucked up the life of every one of your children!

She sits in judgement of us, saying he have achieved nothing in life. How dare she when it is she who has put all the obstacles our way?!!

I began throwing up (no longer PB) and it was violent, disgusting, suffocating. My belly began aching terribly and I was all alone except for my daughter who had approached the toilet bowl to see what was coming out of mummy's mouth but mummy was too exhausted and trembling all over to be able to push the baby away. The more I threw up, the more my muscles contracted till I was dry heaving. Mum stopped by the door to the bathroom and said laconically "I didn't cause that." With a few words she had wiped herself of all responsibility and had gone her way.

I cleaned myself and went to sit in the armchair in the long hallway. Mum began asking again what she should do about my food. Mind you, all this talking took place without ever laying eyes on each other, just talking loudly across corridors, doors and rooms. I told her to throw it away as I was no longer interested in eating. Then after a thought, I shouted that she should sell it off to make the money she's spent on us all these months.

I don't know how long I sat in the empty hallway with the clock behind my head ticking the minutes away. But mum shouted from within the depths of the apartment to go over and have some ice cream. Which is about the equivalent of offering heroin to a drug addict... I shook my head. This woman will never change, I told myself.

When I felt better, I gathered my possessions and made my way downstairs to my own flat. My brother carried my daughter down for me. On the way he kept asking what it is that I have eaten that has made me throw up. "You must have eaten whilst you were still digesting or you have overeaten," he concluded.

"No, my brother, I have done none of these. It is just our crazed mother who comes up with the most impossible things at the worst times," I explained in as calm a voice as I could master. Then I went on to tell him exactly what she had said to me and what the implication was.

You see, when you want to pay your way, she refuses and besides I didn't ask her to go into so much expense buying furniture and stuff for the child. I had been very specific that we needed nothing and what we needed I would buy when I got there. Then mum begins her woe-is-me charade, counting her expenses and saying how much she is spending, how difficult her finances are but continues to refuse financial assistance, just so she is not deprived of the masochistic pleasure of moaning about stuff. And if you dare complain about her ways the retort is "is that your thanks?!!"

Anyway, the bottom line is my Sunday has been screwed, my dream barbie has been screwed, and my life has been screwed. So I can't wait to go 'home' to England to be free, even if life has its difficulties and the loneliness is immense.

As for eating steak, well, I can go without. Whatever it takes... to be thin. To be free from the isolation cell into which my own mother has condemned me. If yoghurt and custard are the only things that I can eat, so be it.

Tomorrow I am having a meeting with one of the directors of the medical centre to see if there are any business opportunities there. And I am going to get weighed. Just to remind myself of my target in life.