I probably should have done this blogging before I started eating, but whatever. I cannot change the past; I can but live in the present. I shall try to start blogging regularly again. It’s good for me.

I binged today. I ate about half of a rich, dense family-size chocolate-cherry Christmas pudding for breakfast. Some breakfast. Anyway. Being alone with no plans, a messy room and my own depressive brain had created a perfect storm, if you’ll forgive the cliché. I grabbed that one-way ticket to Trigger City and I climbed aboard. I knew that overeating would make me feel bad, and yet I still purchased a box of Cheese & Bacon Shapes later on at the corner shop and proceeded to eat them all, reasoning that the relief they would provide would outweigh the pain they would cause. Cognitive dissonance in action. But overeating does give me something. It must, otherwise I wouldn’t do it.

I do get so bored of this shite. This same old battle. I am Sisyphus, rolling the same fucking boulder up the same fucking hill, over and over again. I know that’s not really true though. Thank bloody god. Progress has been made. I don’t think I will ever again be that girl who ate more food than ought to be possible, more food than she would have needed in three days, and became violently ill and lay on her floor and wondered what the hell she could do.

My OCD needles at me. It makes me question everything. Always testing; always doubting. Do I really  care about people, or do I just want them to care about me? And if I can relax and be assured that I do care, do I care enough? Or am I irredeemably selfish? Am I hollow? Am I honestly, fundamentally bad? Broken? I know, logically, that I am not bad, and yet I feel that I am. No medicine I have taken has ever made my condition any better.

I despair.

My unhappiness makes me turn inwards. I turn away from a lot of the news. This makes me ashamed, but what can I do about it? I feel like a failure from the moment I open my eyes in the morning to the moment I close them at night.

I see my sadness written all over my face. I look defeated. I see it in my yellowed, sallow, sick-looking eye sockets. I buy expensive lovely face creams to tighten and firm and smooth my skin, while I simultaneously overeat garbage processed foods that lead to glycation and serve only to deepen and cement the wrinkles etched under my eyes, and make me gain weight so my cheeks become puffier and my neck flabbier and my face stretched and my arms wobbly in a way they have never been before. How long can my body put up with this abuse? Can anybody save me from the burning wreckage of my emotional health? Where are the psychological Jaws of Life when you need them?

I feel I am running myself into a wall, repeatedly, like a malfunctioning remote-control car. I am self-destructing in slow motion. I feel like a bystander and the show is frightening  to behold.

And my body. I’m so uncomfortable with this extra weight that I don’t even want to move. I don’t like feeling it. I don’t want to bend and stretch. I don’t want to do anything. I don’t even want to sew clothes for my larger figure because I don’t want to touch it.

Writing this, giving voice to my pain and rage, gives me a savage pleasure. It is an angry catharsis. It feels good to express my desperation, even as it makes me sad and scared that this is the truth of my life.

I am pretty sure that things will improve. Not everything is bad. I am gradually, slowly, healing. But, right now, I am also hurting.


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