A bit of Story of My Life live in Japan <3
Sunday nights are always spent in dread of Monday mornings. It leads to heavy thoughts and too much retrospection generally filled with a well of regret that leads to general sorrow thus making a pathetic weekly spiral.
Which really means, I should dread Sunday nights, not Monday mornings.
I’ve been staring at my laptop screen for days now trying to come up with what to write in this place.
Each time I start typing, no thought feels real; no words last long enough for me to catch them with my keyboard.
Like most people who have lost some form of weight, I too gained back all that I lost last year…and I fear a little extra. You see, I’m too scared to get on my scale to find out for sure. I’m just going by the fact that none of the clothes I bought last summer, fit this summer.
I remember all the great things (feeling healthy, lighter, happier, securer) and I miss them but for some reason, I don’t have the control over myself to really commit to working myself back to those great things.
I will be an aunt for the first time (and most likely the only time) in February 2014 and I want to be a huge part of my nieces little life. I want to run around and play with her at parks and not have to slow her down or make her fear I might die because I can’t catch my breath. I want to cuddle with her in a comfy chair and introducer her to Jane Austen and watch her excitement at wondering where the rabbit hole will lead.
I have a fear of the day that comes where she calls me fat or asks why I’m so large compared to everyone else. She won’t do it out of meanness; it’s simply how a child sees things. They see and then say…they haven’t grown filters yet which is ok.
No matter what, I want her to grow up comfortable and confident. I don’t want her to second guess any part of herself for any reason. I dream that she’ll never have doubts and will never fear expressing her thoughts and feelings. And I hope, above all hopes, that she loves herself.
I want to be her friend and I want to be a good example for her. I want to feel like I deserve her love and affection. I want to feel like I deserve my own.
I want to start this weight loss game over again. I’ve done it once. I can do it again and again if needed.
So, here we go. Wish me luck.
I’m not afraid to admit that every problem I’ve ever had with my body, every problem I’ve had with my weight, has been because of my eating.
My bones aren’t especially big, my metabolism isn’t slow and I don’t have a thyroid issue. What I do have is a dysfunctional, disordered, downright disturbing relationship with food.
Put me alone in a well-stocked room, give me a few hours and I will go to town, smashing through it with reckless abandon leaving behind carnage of crumbs, crusts and any other left-over bit you can imagine. When the dust clears, you’ll find me sitting alone atop my throne of calories.
And the frightening thing is not the sheer volume I can take down, the speed with which it is consumed, or the daunting prospects of an obese future. The truly worrying part, at least to me, is the fact that I seemingly have no control. You’d think that if you’re aware of a problem, you could forecast it and take measures to stop it. Like a radio report of a traffic jam or a tornado warning, you might prepare and avoid. But it rarely happens that way. You see it looming and you walk right into it. You know it won’t make you happy but here it comes and you partake and maybe it tastes good, hell it might even feel good for a moment, but more often than not you overdo it. It leaves you underwhelmed and regretful.
I do this thing when I’m alone where I look for opportunities to eat knowing full well I have a date night or planned meal coming up.
"They have no idea I ate already so they can’t judge me for eating this."
And I know it makes no sense. I know it the entire time. I know, because I’ve done it so many times. The precedent is set. The outcome won’t change. It won’t all of a sudden be a good idea.
I see people eating a pizza and when they don’t finish the whole thing, I wonder why. What’s it like to not have an innate desire to force it down? Then I feel envious. I want that control and, even more, I want their body. A body that feels satisfied with the appropriate amount of food. And then, finally, I look within. What am I looking for, what void am I trying to fill?
Am I sad? No.
Am I anxious or stressed? No.
Am I manic? No.
Am I bored? Only occasionally.
So what is it? A hobby? No. An addiction? Most likely. But that doesn’t answer “Why?”
And I’m not struggling with it at the moment. This isn’t a depressed “Dear Diary” moment. It’s me wrestling with what I’ve wrestled with my whole life. Through the ups and downs, when I regress to my average it’s into a deep trench of overeating. Like Charlie in Flowers for Algernon, no matter how far I go, no matter how high the highs, I find myself scraping and clawing to try to beat myself—to finally break through.
And I won’t be successful until I get to the root. That’s what I’m searching for this time.
I feel like I could have written this. Always feels good, even if just a little bit, knowing you aren’t the only one who thinks the way you do.
I swear if Rosie Huntington-Whiteley left that guy for Niall I am done.
I want to plan a all weekend slumber party at my house when the This Is Us dvd is released. too early?