One thing that I do very well, is speaking the truth, and many versions of the truth. And that’s why I’m here right now. I’m killing myself again. With overeating – with making poor food choices – with not wanting to give a fuck about myself – and a few other things most likely. I had intended to come here and write something productive – positive – happy even … yeah nah. What is productive about this post is that it’s true for right now and I’m disallowing myself to hide behind a false positive while the rest of me continues to die off so to speak, for the comfort of others at times too.
So here I am. Again. Faced with insurmountable tides of grief that I’m getting over through making poor food choices. My life has changed so radically in the space of almost 6 months. I have begun to work. I have travelled. I have made many connections outside of myself. I have been to workshops. Learned African drumming grooves – I just realised my Djembe is almost a year old. I bought her for my birthday last year. I also bought a Shamanic drum a few weeks ago. Today I named her Rere – here’s a pic of her: Rere is my native tongue word for Flight. You can see why I named her Rere – right?
I have a lot going for me now. My heart has never felt happier – never! Yet this fucking food thing I can not get myself through. I have been hard out wanting to rent an exercise bike. For my current weight, it’s big bucks. I seriously want to go to the gym 3 times a week yet realistically – I can’t afford the fucking petrol. There is no point me going just once a week – I am not going to achieve what it is that I actually want to have happen once a fucking week.
Perhaps it will be about gently teaching myself how to fit an hours gym time into each day that I am in town and on top of everything else that must be done. I feel so caved in. Eating is my way to cope with overwhelming life experiences that are brand new to me. And get this – I don’t even enjoy eating. This mindful eating phase that so many are on board with at the moment is unhelpful. Why? Because I can not manage the pressure of having to eat slowly – to enjoy food. For fucks sake. Can no-one actually hear me on that?
The more people speak about mindful eating – the more mindful I am about ensuring I stuff my face as soon as the overwhelm kicks in. It makes me hate myself even more. No-one is listening to me. No-one wants to hear what I have to say. No-one wants to know how bad I hurt all over. Any sign of emotion is consistently being shut down like it’s a conversation about a taboo subject or something and then the lectures begin about mindfulness this and mindfulness that. Am I supposed to sit there like an obedient student as well and just nod my head while I watch their lips move to give the impression I’m actually engaged with so and so? It leaves me feeling even more isolated. And enraged. And angered.
It triggers me further into the abyss of isolation.
And once again poor food choices becomes my one and only constant friend that actually makes sense to me.
And I cry – no, again I howl more tears. Tears that aren’t about sadness. They’re angry tears. They are frustrated tears which then ensure that I do not sleep which then ensures that I do not eat well which then ensures a lot of other things. All because I can not find someone to simply listen to me and to work with me instead of at me.