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.

Gotta Hate That Emotional Eating Thang

Today was hard.

I have a wonderful family who normally spoil me silly on special occasions. Perhaps I've become a brat or something, but this year they are letting me down.

Also in past years, we've been so broke around Mother's Day and my birthday (which is in a couple months) that there hasn't been much to spend on gifts. I've always been fine with that. But I have to admit that this year, knowing we weren't so tight, I was looking forward to a little spoiling.

I gave plenty of suggestions well in advance of this weekend. Plenty reminders that Mother's Day was coming up, lol. But it wasn't until today that Skinny Man decided to go shopping for me. But that's not the problem.

The problem was he took me and the boys with him (why did I have to go?) and just kept asking me what I wanted. 

Well, if you're a girl, you know that this is not how it's supposed to work. 

Finally I got frustrated--not angry, just sad, really--and told them that I loved them and I didn't like feeling that they were only out to get me a gift to give me something. I'd be happy with some extra lovin'. If they didn't have any idea of what to get me, then they shouldn't get me anything. Ya know?

Of course you know that I was also not telling the truth, right?

Sure, I want the extra lovin' and I want to feel loved. I want to feel special. I want, for a moment, to feel like a Queen in my home. But, I also like gifts. :D

So I dropped everyone off at home and went out to get groceries. And I had an epiphany. 

I was craving sweets, treats ... anything that I could shove in my mouth. I ate two Rollo's which took a great amount of self control not to eat more, but still ... it shouldn't have happened at all.

I found myself hoping they weren't home when I returned so that I could sit down with a bag of Doritos and pig out. That would have been bad on so many levels. It might have single-handedly ruined my efforts on my diet. It would have left me feeling hated (by me) and punished (by me) and icky in general. It would have disappointed Skinny Man who has been so proud of my progress.

I did not come home and pig out. Aside from those two little Rollo's I did not have anything illegal today.

But I found it so interesting that in the face of feeling let down by the ones I love, my reaction was to punish myself. 

Why? What would I accomplish, psychologically speaking, if I were to do that? Prove that I'm unlovable? And that they have good reason not to spoil me because I am so unlovable? To hurt myself so they would feel sorry for letting me down? For driving me to pig out?

I think both, really. I wanted Skinny Man to feel sorry--to realize that he had an opportunity to really make me feel loved, and instead he made me feel like I--and this special day--was just an afterthought. 

And I wanted to punish myself because I hate feeling so needy that I have to drive my family into caring for me, into loving me. Am I that horrible? That rotten that people wont' just love me and show me they love me? Not unless I hold their strings, like puppets, and make them? 

I need to believe in myself more.

I know Skinny Man loves me. I know it. He doesn't always show me in the way I want him to, but he shows me in his own way and it is no less because of that.

I know Thing 1 and Thing 2 love me. They treat me with respect and always give me love and kisses. Why should Mother's Day be special when every day with them is special? Sounds corny, I know, but my boys are very affectionate and are often telling me how much they love me. Why do I need a day to prove it to myself?

I shouldn't.

I am loved. These three people love me. I would do them honor, and my Father in Heaven, if I would only love myself as well. 

What Is It With Diets Anyway?

Kristi said something that just popped out at me. She said that whenever she actually tries to diet, her body totally rebels and she ends up going way overboard with food.

I wasn't sure what I was going to blog about today, but I knew I needed to get in here and write, to keep that connection, like I said I would. But my day totally sucked food-wise. At lunch I ate like ten chocolate chip cookies. Not becuase I was hungry, but because they tasted good and I was alone and well ... the best way to get them out of my face (so they can't taunt me anymore) is to shove them in my face.

But then I read Kristi's post.

And so I ask, what is it with diets, anyway?

What is it about diets that make bingers cringe?

I have no flippin' idea. If I knew that answer, I swear, I'd be a size eight once more and I wouldn't be here, that's for sure.

And you know? I'm mad as heck about it too. I hate that I don't have any clothes that don't show the little rolls in my middle. I hate the feeling of those rolls as my arms rest against them. I hate the fact that my breasts no longer look as big because they are competing with those same rolls.

I'm mad that while I can control what I say when I'm talking to people (and really want to tell them what I think but I control myself and instead say the polite thing), I can't control what I put in my mouth. I can control whether or not I clean my house, pay my bills, go grocery shopping and many other things that I hate doing. So why can't I stay on a diet?

Actually, scratch that.

I do feel in control. 

But for some reason I haven't yet grasped, a part of me is choosing to stuff my face.

I can feel it. It does not exactly feel like being out of control. It feels like want, need, righteousness. I deserve it. I should have it.

Maybe, I'm a freak. Oh, and so is Kristi ;)

Are you a freak, too?