Having been dealt what my sister and I call "the chubby gene" as well as being a child of divorce, I suppose I didn't have a prayer in having a normal relationship with food.
My father, a compulsive liar turned Martha Stewart wanna-be, and I haven't had an honest conversation in my entire life. My relationship with my mother (an anti-Martha with anger management issues) remains perfect just so long as we tell her how wonderful our upbringing was.
I just turned 39 and still haven't learned how to cope with emotions outside of the pantry door. I could go on and on but I'm tired of it. The buck has to stop here, I've got to pick my pannus up by its bootstraps and shift my ass into gear if I want to be in a semi-fit and healthy state before middle age sets in.