One of the reasons I love blogging is my readers. Yes, I have a narcissistic exhibitionist lingering just below my skin’s surface. Anyone who knows me very well will tell you this, and yes getting everything on my mind out into cyber space is extremely cathartic, but other than my need for attention and emotional purging, sometimes I am truly inspired by the things my readers write in the comments which in turn helps me write. My last post I have 3 comments. Not the 20 that I used to get but it doesn’t even matter because within these 3 comments were like-stories, and enlightening thoughts about these women that I realized applied to me as well. Those comments inspired this post.
I feel like I am living in some kind of morbid soap opera where I am having this insatiable love affair but instead of my lover being a man, it is food. There is lust and desire and betrayal and jealousy. Jealousy. I think I am the poster girl for that. How one person can harbor so much disdain for herself while silently wanting everything that isn’t hers is beyond me, and yet here I am, wanting everything that is not mine. From food, to body type, to attitude, and the freedom to be myself. But that poses a daunting question; who am I? Do I even know? How do I figure it out? And if I do, what if I don’t like it? What if I find out who I am and others don’t like it?
My life is not the most riveting or even close to it. In fact I believe I lead a rather dull existence in comparison with other people I know. I have my family, my children, my blogging, my books, some shows on television I like, scrapbooking, music and the gym. Those are staples in my life. But among those staples is my lover. Food. It seeps into everything and affects my interactions, my activities, my work, my concentration and my motivation. It’s like an invisible stench that just lingers and plays with my mind, distracting me from what is truly important.
Tonight we are having family dinner. My sister is bringing her boyfriend and immediately that puts me out of my comfort zone. It is one thing to covet people’s food when they know you have a problem (But then who wouldn’t know I have a problem with just one glance at me?) but an entirely new ball game to feel the obsession, the rabid need overwhelm you when there are ‘strangers’ watching. It shouldn’t be this way. Family dinner with the addition of an extra guest who my sister loves very much and whom I and my family are very fond of should mean nothing but happy memories. But for me, it’s one more set of eyes watching me at the table. One more plate of food.
Food. Food. Food.
It is truly a dirty word and an embarrassing secret that I try to shove into the closet the minute someone starts to take notice. Like a lover being shoved out the window or under the bed when someone is about to walk in on you.
And then the next day I do it again.
Fighting that compulsion is nearly impossible. Only sleep or serious distraction can deter me when I feel that way and when I cannot be distracted and I cannot fall asleep and I give in to the compulsion, it never ends nicely. One bite of whatever it is, is not sufficient. If it’s chips I eat either the entire bag or until I am so entirely stuffed I cannot move and feel as though I might vomit, whichever comes first. I have on a few occasions eaten so many salt and vinegar chips that the salt created sores on my tongue. Ice cream, I can easily eat an entire gallon. It never makes me sick. Candy is a sick joke for people like me. Especially pieces wrapped in foil like hugs or dove hearts or mini candy bars. (Halloween candy is the bane of my existence) When I am on an eating jag it is as though I am eating competitively and unwrap as quickly as I pop them in my mouth with no time to actually savor or even taste them before I pop another to chase it.
Until later with more self revelation