No more comfort food?????
The thing that sucks about being an emotional eater is that, when the eating stops, the emotions are still there - just as raw and nasty as the day they first got shoved down my throat and buried under thousands of carbs and millions of calories.
How can it be that I still struggle with the same old crap that suffocated me when I was 13?
You would think, at some point in life, it would give up, let go, move on to someone else.
I can't even name it. It's so many things wrapped into one messy, oozing package.
I really have no idea who I am.
I don't even know what I like.
Here's what's happening...
My favorite food is cereal. Always has been. I'm not particular about the type, but I will tell you that I LOVE it with whole milk (even though I usually eat it with 2%).
That's a fact. It's something I know about myself. I love cereal.
But now I can't eat cereal... ever again. It's my "morphine" food. It's the "trigger" that my doctor says can lead to my downfall. His recommendation? Total, complete abstinence from all things cereal-related. Forever.
So now what?
What is my favorite food?
I have no idea.
I realize that is a small, insignificant thing in the grand scheme of life. I understand that children are dying of disease and starvation in Africa. Millions have lost homes and family and any semblance of normalcy in Haiti. South Korea is in constant threat of war... and I am worrying about what my favorite food is.
But it's a symbol, you see?
I don't know what my favorite color is. Used to be red. For years, red. Then red became a faux pas - something only for old ladies who had "earned" the right to stand out. And so, red was pushed to the back of my closet and under my bed for a while.
Now? I don't so much like red.
I don't know how I like to dress because, for so long, my style has been decided by the designers of L*ane Br*yant - my one-stop shop for plus-size clothes.
I don't have favorite music.
I don't have any vision or dreams for the future.
I feel... insignificant.
I look to everyone else to tell me what I like. When I shop, I think, "What will so-and-so think if I show up wearing this?"
When dressing my girls in the morning: "Will the other moms think my girls are unloved or uncared-for?" or worse "Will the other kids decide that my kids' clothes are 'uncool'?"
I have not had any non-family member over to my house since we moved in. Why? Because I am afraid they will disapprove of my decorating style, or the size of my home, or the smell of my air freshener (seriously).
WHEN DID I BECOME THIS PERSON?
When did I start giving a shit about what people think of me?
Seriously. 13. Thirteen years old was the last time I can really remember feeling like this.
But you know what? It's been there all along. Every step of the way. It's like I've always known. And when that nagging feeling starts creeping up the back of my throat - the one that says I'm not enough, or that I'm too much, or that I'll never ever in a hundred years measure up - I shove it down... with a big fat soggy bowl of sugar-coated cereal.
But now there is no cereal. And when that nasty voice that tells my I'm not what I'm supposed to be starts creeping up from my stomach and into my head, I have no ammunition.
I can't drown it in whole milk. I can't smother it will buttery bread.
I just have to deal with it.
...and I'm not doing very well.