I've been eating...a lot...
I know this place it's very familiar and even in an fairly safe place such as this it pains me to admit it. My child hood was less than stellar. At my Mothers house food was scarce, not because we were poor but because she was too drunk to shop or cook. When she did cook it was damn near inedible. Her husband at the time was a tyrant, abusive in many ways to all in the house... At that time police were not required to take action in domestic cases so every time they sent us home for more abuse, I ended up trusting no one, and realizing that help was coming from nowhere.
When things got intolerable(he knocked my mother unconscious and set her car on fire to name a few), I begged my father(and his new family) to let me live with him and finally I was old enough to decide who I wanted to live and convince a judge and I moved in with my dad (about 12 years old), I hid food under my bed, in my closet etc. and ate as much as I could every chance I got and got hell for it when caught. It was both to make sure I got enough and to numb what I had been through. No one really understood it was just something they thought that had to be brow beaten out of me. To say the least I have had issues with food since but in recent years, probably the last 10, the issues have been a low hum, easily managed.
Every once in awhile, BAM, it rears it's ugly head.
I know why I am doing it, I know basically how to stop doing it..and I have been pulling out every tool in my toolbox...but then I sink back in. Why? It feels good. It gives me something else to think about. It numbs the pain. It makes me feel productive(the cooking not necesarily the eating). As odd as it sounds it gives me control over something. It's my attempt to pretend it's all not happening.
It didn't work when I was 12 and it's not working now.
It's just one more thing to worry about. I feel like I got derailed by last month. It's so strange. I knew it wasn't going to work, but I wanted it to work so badly and after much thought and some journaling now I know why. It's not just that months failure. It's the fact that each failure extends the journey. A journey I would much rather put behind me. In fact if I could wave a wand and make it go away I would. So starting to "try" again means that I can't pretend this isn't happening to me. I know how silly that sounds...but a part of me thinks it should have gone a different way, and if I just try hard enough I can meet up with that other me, on that other path and join her, putting all of the horror and dissappointment behind me.
I mean is this really what happened to me?
This is happening to me. This is happening to me. This is happening to me. Maybe if I say it enough I can accept it, and stop trying to stuff it down with donuts, crackers, cheese, strawberry rhubarb pie and slice after slice of bread. This is the hand I've been dealt and it's shitty.
Maybe the next hand will be better.