I’m writing it anyway, but I fear that this post will be a blog cliche: Writer posts often for a while, even a long while, but then fades away. Then she/he writes again, saying “I’ve been gone, but XXX happened, and now I’m back.”
I frickin’ hate being a cliche, almost enough to not even write this. But, here I am, albeit without any promise that I’ll ever write after this. But like every writer ever, I have something I think I should contribute.
My writing has centered on my experience as a recovering food addict who was obese for years, and who has been maintaining a 155-pound loss for about 30 years. Because it hasn’t been my experience for a very long time, I haven’t written much about relapse.
But it’s where I’m writing from today. I have been on a downward path (spiritually, emotionally, and now, finally, on the scale — down as in up!) for maybe a couple of years, and my eating is, presently, as bad as it has been in … I honestly don't know how long it's been since it's been this bad. 15 years, anyway.
To illustrate (certainly not to brag), here’s what I ate yesterday: A facsimile of a typical breakfast — yogurt, fruit, and grain — but with larger portions. At mid-morning, a 2-oz packet of peanuts and a bag of chips. For lunch, $15 worth of wings and fries, following immediately by a bag of corn nuts from the drug store whose lot I’d parked in to eat my deep-fried dishes. Maybe 90 minutes later, I went to TJs for a bag of dried figs and a big bag of parsnip chips, and then went to a different lot to eat them. I felt pretty ill after that, and ate only apples and grapes from there.
It’s not my worst day since I entered this ever-deepening crevice of self abuse, but it’s bad enough. I can’t live like this. For a little while now — months? —I've been experiencing, occasionally, little blips of consciousness — which I know is barely descriptive, but I don’t know how to say it better. It’s like if they sustained, I’d pass out, but they last less than a second. They came yesterday at a greater rate than ever — a couple of dozen, maybe? — and I wonder whether I need to go to the doctor about them. What would I say? And what annoying flurry of tests would such an amorphous report trigger?
So you see: I fear that my eating is directly threatening my health — never mind the obvious long-term peril — and I’m not going to a doctor, but I am continuing to eat. This is how it has always been for food addicts not in recovery— suicide on the installment plan.
I am talking with a caregiver who has helped me repeatedly when I’ve been in the shit about going away again — I’ve checked flights, car rentals, and other scenarios. But for today, I’m “thinking” about that, and still eating.
There’s plenty more I can share about it, but, I've always written longer than readers want to read. Maybe, I’ll cover those in further posts, but no promises.