The house was full of people rummaging through my moms personal belongings.All of her collections of dishes,platters,gifts from Lebannon and Brazil from guests that occupied our home many times over  the years.Her jewellery her favorite pieces that meant so much to her ,her hand made needlepoint chairs….all fresh for the picking.REALLY? .. Being thirteen and my sister 8 didn’t give us much say.Yes,you may ask where my father was through all of this? If anyone knew my dad at all let’s just say he did not make the best of decisions but let’s not be fooled many adults that were there grabbing  definitely knew better.If I myself had ever been a part of this as an adult I would have been ashamed  …I wonder how these people could actually come in and  grab things that were spread out on our living room table with out feeling guilty and simply wrong.I won’t go into detail of what I do remember being taken or the people who filled  the many rooms in the house but the memory is there.I could share many a story but this would just not be fair.The memory remains however I don’t dwell but as I am re telling my story this must come up.So I have no doubt that food was still my best friend.It was there it soothed the hurt.I was eating my emotions. The food wouldn’t reject me. I thought it simply comforted me….I was just filling that void,the fears,confusion and the pain ,the feelings of being alone and not belonging and simply just stuffing it in but we all  know the answer  and that this would solve nothing but however start a vicious pattern of battling with food.Such a painful and forever fight….that continues to silently sit in my shadow.A forever battle….