Secret Ravings of a Homeless Witch

This is the post I wanted to write – the post I am writing despite still needing to do my romantical paean or whatever the heck rutting behind the chiffarobe sort of scene I’m aiming for.

I need to track exactly what I eat.  Or as exactly as the software allows.  I need to document my choices without curling up into myself.  Without yellowing and peeling as soon as I realize that I fucked up and then, trying to alter the record so that it isn’t written down, in digital stone, that I am a failure.

I have been really good and today, that fuck-up happened.  But if there is nothing to fuck up, and that is fucking with my head!  There was the Timely Garnet Extravaganza playing all day long in my undercarriage, with the glorious attendant rumblings of pain, sharp and bright like sheet lighting.  There was the financial dealings that have bled their way into my financial dealings which meant, at least for today, there was soup for leftovers and a crap outlook for grocery shopping. Then, there was me sealing that aforementioned soup shut in the microwave, and me in my new but already shaggy-dog looking poncho which is a look jokingly referred to as “homeless witch” by a sharp-tongued co-worker.  Whose sharp-tongue I usually appreciate and am amused by, but today, instead, felt rather a bit exhausted and irritated with.  I had put on makeup today.  I had pulled my hair into a cute ponytail.  Everyone was a little surprised at me getting the brunt of it, even him. Even though we all know that he just says whatever he thinks for better or worse. That’s the bit that bothers me, because nobody gives me feedback, really, and then, suddenly, out of the blue, this wry negative I have to laugh off.  I mean, I am totally down with witchery and wildness, but that wasn’t what he meant or what I had been gunning for.  I feel sort of messy and melted, but nobody’s allowed to pick up on that.  It sort of pisses on this idea that I thought maybe I was getting somewhere, yesterday.  It was feeling easier.  And today, I’m feeling like I can’t move two inches but for falling into another black hole of unsolvable problems.  Like my self-esteem got kicked in its imaginary junk.

So, the pizza I said yesterday, oh no, it’s crap, I would never eat it.   It is crap, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t eat it today because it Or the doughnut holes I am eating before dinner and probably in a minute going to have again.  I really wish I could have not.  But I did.  I have to own that I did it and not do it again tomorrow when things are going to be equally haywire.

Life is always going to jam me up.

I think the shame exists because I wish I could have some backbone in me that would feel obliged to say, hey, you are trying to lose weight and that means that you can’t do do what you did before.  This is what you want to escape.  You have to dig your heels in and pivot.  And when you don’t listen to your better voices, and you know you’re giving up time just to feel…not good or bad, but simply nothing, it’s embarrassing.  It’s embarrassing to say I ate maniacally and privately and in an attempt to keep myself from feeling regret about my job, regret about my body, from perceiving the failure I so often register myself as being.  Not resulting from my choices, but in-born, genetic, terminal failure.  I can hear the tsk-tsk, and the berating tone, and nobody’s said anything.  I make myself feel terrible so that I can keep eating poorly and have this same exhausting conversation over and over again.

But it doesn’t have to be.  Because before, I would do this binge-eating (which, I think in my personal history of bingeing and the collective one I believe exists, is not so bad) and nobody would know about it.   Food was medicine. Food was private.   Food was the panacea and where I didn’t have be nice and polite and silent.   I didn’t have to think about  I had the power to make sure I could get all I needed.   If I happened to eat publically, that was a social requirement, not nutrition.  Lately, though, all I needed is a hell of a lot.

So we have to say what is.   I didn’t want there to be rules I could fail, but there is still the desire that I want to meet. So we have to track what I actually ate.  Even if it’s “bad.” Even if it says that I took a flying leap.  Because we can’t work from nebulous generalities.  We do choose better when we know better, so pretending we can’t know – that it’s all incalculable intangible ATE GOOD or fluid, approximate ATE BAD, how do we replicate it or avoid it?  We end up pulling the same experiments over and over again, every time coming up REPLY HAZY, ASK AGAIN LATER.

Time for the bike and the floor.

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