"These Kinds Of Days"

I've been stuffing myself silly again. 

Yes, it it true. Food is a way of both punishment AND pleasure for me. I have watched and learned of all the ways it is punishment and pain. I am currently living these results. I was not so aware of the immense pleasure that I use it for as a substitute for life, beauty and joy. And is seems to have certainly gone awry. Love and joy gone awry.

I haven’t stopped eating badly. But I have added some raw foods again. I don’t want to sugarcoat (pardon the pun) my current process however; so I would like to just say a bit about how I have seen me use it as pleasure.

I am bored off my fucking rocker here! I hate it here! I have been people pleasing and adjusting and complying with and for other people my entire life. Most recently - and I mean recent like the last fifteen fucking years – has been my ex.   He has just pulled another massive, violating act of control and smug arrogance on me.  I will spare you all of the monotonous details.

Just today I was running my head off – trying to share coaching with people, nursing my sick 13 year old - whose been on the couch for three days - back to health.  And getting ready to leave for a long weekend to be with my family.  I have not showered in three days. I have been wearing the same clothes for two days, I had to go to the laundry mat because I don’t have a washer/dryer I have severe PMS and I am exhausted – oh and did I mention my mother’s dead and sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind?   And on top of it all my ex has been a fucking jerk. I mean, no compassion, staunch, rude, cruel asshole. I’m not blind to the fact that I am in fact being exactly what I have accused him of being by the very act of writing what I just wrote about him. But I don’t care.

Today I went to Guido's to shop. I bought a small container of warm barbecue brisket they had on special at the hot bar. I got a whole wheat bun and I made love to that baby the whole twenty minute ride back to my home. It was such a warm, delicious beautiful break in my exhausting, boring, self-neglectful, sad, desperate and misunderstood day. I had nothing to give, but I had a whole bunch more people to give to. The brisket helped me to forget about how much I used to love to do my hair and put on my make up with out missing a beat. My fall Stiletto heals or my summer wedges that would dress my feet and scream “that’s right, I’m alive, and happy and ready for my dreams!” The brisket going down my throat – the taste of the salt and sweet and the way it just pulled apart like butter – effortless – no resistance, it didn’t fight me once. It didn’t blame the disturbing quirks of life on me. It helped me to forget about the stage and the theatre and my singing and the guitar I haven’t touched in three months. It camouflaged my deep grief over my absent, abusive, desperate, beautiful, schizoid-effective dead Mother. And it helped me believe the lies that I tell myself on "these kinds of days" that still visit me once in a while.   The lies about how I am trapped and stuck and old and ugly and fat and worthless.

It mostly gave me the pleasure I long for. It gave me such deep and satisfying pleasure – unfounded, crazy, from my head to my toes, unearned, easy, warm, pleasure. I felt touched and sexual and wanted and I felt beautiful and like I had my hair done and my make up on and like I was dressed to the nines going to a rehearsal for MY show, MY singing, MY book, MY life, MY way, MY TERMS. MY MY MY MY MY MY. For twenty minutes I had that.

Until my blood sugar spiked, I got sick to my stomach, my mouth turned dry, I felt tired and cranky and my bones hurt. It turned on me, again.

But it was worth the twenty minutes. Especially since I don’t ever get that again until the next time. And the time after that.   And the time after that. And = a more than chubby, maybe even obese, diabetic digging her grave with a knife and fork. 

This is how she lives on "these kinds of days."

Thanks for listening.

Love and Hugs..

xoxo

Steph