Must I Always Feed My Pain?

I've had a kind of rough weekend that hasn't gotten any better this sunny Monday. At every turn, I felt like I got socked in the gut until I lay on the ground in the fetal position. Not literally, but . . . you know.

So what did I do?

I ate a McDonald's Big Mac meal. Totally. Every single fry. Every single bite of burger.

And then I had a piece of apple pie with ice cream.

And you know what? I don't even feel done. If Skinny Man wasn't sitting right beside me, I'd be eating more.

So why do I feel like I need to feed my pain?

Some people care for emotional pain with exercise. Crazy amounts of exercise.

I once knew a woman who suffered from OCD to such an extreme she couldn't sleep if her house wasn't thoroughly cleaned. As in toothbrush-to-the-grout kind of clean. Her need for perfection extended to herself too--she exercised until her menstruation was interrupted, until she was losing weight at an alarming rate.

I guess a lot of us have issues, right? I used to look at my friend--perfect house, perfect body, perfect wardrobe--and think she was . . . well, perfect. Until I got to know her and learned that her perfection was her greatest shame. It was an illness, not perfection. Her perfection hurt.

You can't look at other people and know what pain their outward appearance may hide. People may look at me and wonder why I've let myself get so chubby, when if only I exercise, I'd look so cute.

Right. If only.

But I can't add my lack of will power to my really bad day. I'm burdened enough as it is. So for tonight, I'm going to feed my pain and not beat myself up for it.