There Is No Comfort In Comfort Eating
I’m all sweaty and angry at myself tonight for being a decadent wanker. This is not comfortable and I’m glad I’m doing something about it as I hate feeling this way.
Ever watched the Domino’s Pizza ads where you see all these beautiful people getting up to all sorts of high japes on their couch? Balancing remote controls on their noses like retarded sea lions? Then one of them orders a fucking pizza and shit goes wild?
The pizza man arrives and everyone is high fiving one another like at the start of a porno.
I’ve bought into that myth. Only I eat alone. Often in bed. My sheets look like every animal in history has came at once on them. Instead of Noah in his ark all fucked up on oxytocin, it’s my bedsheets and reds, browns and yellows. It’s fucking horrifying.
I never high five the pizza delivery person. I nod to them like I used to nod to bouncers on the door of bars I’d been thrown out of.
“This is not me again, this is my 3rd identical twin Henrico – and yes his sweat also mysteriously stinks of cornflakes.”
I don’t have a normal relationship with food. When I’m eating I sing a happy little song in my head. I can’t separate that happy little song from the angry “Hey cunt, you’re that fat you’re tripping over your tits again’
I can’t separate it from feeling slow, achey and hormonal. Life is too short for this yo-yoing shit!
Comfort eating should bring comfort long term. But it doesn’t. It makes me feel more powerless and realises how shitty my coping skills are.
Recently I was feeling guilty for not sending out thank you messages to LEJOG donors on time. Instead of writing the emails I’d eat to forget my guilt and the guilt would come back and when it was a choice between writing the emails or eating. Noms. Sad noms. Guilt.
Why not just send the thank you emails on time? Or think about how you’ll thank people in future in a systematic yet thoughtful way?
Hurray – I’ve learned a coping strategy but seriously?
Before I went on LEJOG I went on what I called a “seafood diet”. I’d have an entire box of Guylian chocolates for breakfast along with a can of Ting (for one of my day).
I knew my weight was sliding out of control again so instead of thinking of balance I thought “yeah sure run across the country and transform yourself that way. Drown your problems out with sweat and not booze”. Problems can swim really fucking well in sweat and booze.
Know what would be comfort eating for me? Eating a nice fucking salad and not having to exercise off 5,000 calories a day.
The reason why I’ve put on weight is because I wasn’t happy when I was thin either.
What does it matter if I’m fat? Or skinny? I need to be happy now and not say to myself “once I get here I’ll be happy”. I’ll never be fucking happy. It’s not even happiness I’m after. It’s peace of mind. Acceptance. Relaxing without getting all fucked up on cheddar.
Accepting and being able to live with myself (in any state) is the first step to health.
I need to cultivate some kind of compassion for myself that doesn’t involve going and buying 32 trays of Guylian.
I don’t want a six-pack or any body in particular. I want a quiet mind and a quiet life. One I can control without resorting to insane extremes.
I want to run across countries not to lose weight but for adventure!