Ok. Binge eating is a part of borderline personality disorder. Last night I ate a pound of fudge. I thoughtfully cleaned the crumbs off my sheets early this morning and wondered how I am going to cut out enough calories in my diet to cover a pound of fudge...
Pound. Of. Fudge.
It's not easy doing that. One must have a certain tolerance for sweets, to say the least, and the ability to disengage the part of the brain that says, "I don't give a shit about what I weigh." It's like super-sizing all of my meals, everyday, just for the extra boost that the french fries give me.
I can see a long holiday season coming.
I do feel that self-pity plays a role: "What the hell? No one cares. I will never have a normal relationship, or sex again. So WTF?" It's also called the everyone-else-is-doing-it syndrome. I often lay in bed, as a child, and wondered why my Mother only ate at night time. I don't know if mental illness played a role or not, in her eating. I'm sure it probably did: she was morbidly obese (extremely overweight.)
But flash forward to today, cause life is all about living in today, and I am having my own relationship with a pound of fudge. Like the male praying mantis, the fudge ends up on the wrong end of the deal, every time. I am the female, and just clean my tentacles and move on, looking for the next good-time Charlie. I can guarantee, that the next few weeks of my existence will contain a lot of salad, as I seek to recoup from my one-night stand.
My therapist suggested that I drink a glass of water instead. That would be great, but I already go to the bathroom, the loo, about 8 times a night, as it is. And yes, it's normal for me. I know, there are meds for that, but they don't work for me. Thanks, anyway.
So, what to do? I could blog more, that is interesting and engages my hands, but it requires a certain state of mind called 'being awake' to pull off. I have tried eating spicy to stop me. Also, fruit, yogurt, fiber, it doesn't matter. Tonight, I will make a concerted effort not to eat, while half-asleep and let you know the results tomorrow.
Don't get me wrong, I do that every night, but tonight I will not have anything to eat, haven eaten everything that isn't glued to the kitchen sink. I know I am not going to eat the cat's food. That would be really sick. And yeah, I have tried exercise. It seems to have nothing to do with how hungry I am.
And I wish I could say that, if I had Alan Rickman on my hands, I wouldn't eat all night, but I can't. I would find a way. And with that disturbing visual, I leave you on the edge of the field, today.
I wish I could be with all of you, everyday. We could stand on the edge of this field, forever. The daylilies that line the creek leading into the forest love the rain, and they are a particular shade of orange, at dawn. Queen Anne's Lace and goldenrod darken the field before the sun comes up. The grass is a ghostly grey. The leaves are dark against the lightening sky, but the trees are black. I planted zinnia in the field last year, and there will be butterflies over them, soon. All kinds of butterflies, big, little, darkish brown to yellow to the brightest white, traveling in pairs. The bird song echoes from the forest's limit, and the green ferns wait for the sun.
The path is a motion in the grass, frozen. We walk the same path to the forest everyday, or we meander over the field, first. Spider webs catch us, laced with dew. The grasses are wet from the rain, and we gather the water on us, as we brush by. Reaching out to touch a dogwood limb, it showers us with rain. It doesn't matter. The leaves are too lovely, rounded but pointy, to resist touching them. Berries will be on the dogwood soon, and the leaves will be purple. Here and there, we walk around a puddle of water, on the path. The grasses are greener, and yellow too, now, as the sun comes. The sky is pinker, the color of the lightest of the zinnia. Time catches us, again and again. Every step brings us closer to the sun.
The rolling brambles and the ferns wait us in the forest. A ring of blasted trees regrows from the roots. Animal sounds crunch around us. The forest is rarely still. And now the sky is white, and the grass is green. The flowers take on color, ruby red to yellow to pink. The bark is brown, and the leaves are green again, darker than the grasses, but not as dark as the moss at the bottom of the stream. Rock colors can be seen, sand, blue, and brown, green.
The scent of the forest is the scent of the mountains, in the morning. It is an ancient smell, earthy, yet wet. A crispiness is coming to the field and the wood, and lies like a fog over the ground, this morning. Somewhere, a light beckons us to a small house in the distance. It is our home, and the coffee scents the air, here. Cats wait for us and sleep, and the dog rouses with a bark. We spend our time with the dark and the light and the mystery of what lies at the forest's center, and make our slow way back across the field. We pick flowers as we go, for the breakfast table.
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