Here's the thing. I know she's me. I know it. But I look at these photos, these moments of the past and I find it harder to recognise myself in them. And this is a good thing, right? That I'm starting to equate this 'new' version of myself with my internalised idea of who I am? I mean, sure, I'm still mesmorised on occasion by the sight of my veins in the back of my hands, or the 'dents' where skin follows the contour of bones and isn't puffed out by quantities of fat. But I look back through time and I find myself wondering who she was... even though I know how she got there. She got there through hate and misery and loneliness and despair.
What is it that tells us that we can eat our way through these things? What strange compulsion leads us to believe that food solves our problems? How sad is it that food can become such a weapon of self destruction in a world where so many starve? But that was what I did. That was where she came from - that fat girl, fat woman, that I see staring, sometimes smiling, out of the photos on my hard drive. 10 years of misery. 10 years of not dealing with stress. 10 years of trying to drown out all the hate and anger, to smother it, with food.
So why am I sitting here having nearly polished off an entire large block of milk chocolate? I know it's like some sort of drug for me. I know this too well. If I start eating that damn stuff I cannot stop, even if I feel sick to my stomach. So why, dear god, did I buy it? Especially tonight. I know it still upsets me. Seeing him. Being that close and not being able to talk to him, to touch him, to simply walk up to him and hug him and be hugged in return. I know that the lack of him will make me sad and that loss can be a quick trigger for old habits that haven't entirely died. So what did I do? Bought a large block of Coconut Rough chocolate and left it on the kitchen bench. Guess she's still in here, isn't she? Squeezing her Size 24 (in the 'No really, big is beautiful section of your local department store" clothing range) arse into my Size 16 body (and for those of you who live outside Australia being a 16 in "normal" clothes sizing is pretty good.)
So
What is it that tells us that we can eat our way through these things? What strange compulsion leads us to believe that food solves our problems? How sad is it that food can become such a weapon of self destruction in a world where so many starve? But that was what I did. That was where she came from - that fat girl, fat woman, that I see staring, sometimes smiling, out of the photos on my hard drive. 10 years of misery. 10 years of not dealing with stress. 10 years of trying to drown out all the hate and anger, to smother it, with food.
So why am I sitting here having nearly polished off an entire large block of milk chocolate? I know it's like some sort of drug for me. I know this too well. If I start eating that damn stuff I cannot stop, even if I feel sick to my stomach. So why, dear god, did I buy it? Especially tonight. I know it still upsets me. Seeing him. Being that close and not being able to talk to him, to touch him, to simply walk up to him and hug him and be hugged in return. I know that the lack of him will make me sad and that loss can be a quick trigger for old habits that haven't entirely died. So what did I do? Bought a large block of Coconut Rough chocolate and left it on the kitchen bench. Guess she's still in here, isn't she? Squeezing her Size 24 (in the 'No really, big is beautiful section of your local department store" clothing range) arse into my Size 16 body (and for those of you who live outside Australia being a 16 in "normal" clothes sizing is pretty good.)
So
