A knot to what might have been before, a knot to what might yet be again.
Nothing like a bout of nastiness to make you look forward to the annual purge. Nothing like a Sunday night full of waffles and candy to make you reconsider your relationship to reality, to the future, to commitment itself.
I toy with the big ideas of restriction this time of year. I toy with the ideas of change. I usually hedge bets, too, and suggest that as strongly as I might want to believe I could do these restrictive challenges, I should expect to fail.
Right now, I am contemplating going a year without fast food starting January 1. I am contemplating writing daily posts that are limited to diet updates/basic bullet points/progress + a weekly post like this of venting and whatever it is we do here (the remainder of my 500 daily words will be taken up with fiction or writing that I have some dream of publishing. I am contemplating the weight of my own bullshit against the weight of my own desires.
This is tied, of course, to this tiny idea that I can’t kill.
Maybe I should have some self-esteem. Maybe I have to do these things outside of a therapist telling me to do them, outside of anyone telling me to do them. Maybe I am telling myself to do them. Maybe we can’t set out to stop. Maybe we can’t plan for the wrong turn.
My teeth feel like you could carve them like limestone.
I have the sort of hunger that feels world-sized.
A distraction, it implies, is required from a world-sized world.
Sometimes it feels as though I cannot move one inch. But, I still want big, world-sized things.
Doing low-carb again would be a stronger step forward than to simply say I would watch what I eat. Because I can watch myself eat waffles and truffles and feel disgusting
It has been a hard year. No one is disputing that. It has thrown me against the rocks and stolen my lunch money – years worth of it – and it has rattled my ability to just stare myself down in the mirror. Deadlines and windows and start dates, the ritual helps. The ritual clears things quickly so that I can get the medicine down my gullet.
If I can get through a 2016 that seemed at times bent on destroying me – I have to get myself to the idea that there’s another side. A positive, affirming, liveable life out there with my name on it. I don’t have to, but I’d like to. I’d so like to.
I don’t think I can relive all of this in a new variation, the dance about broke my legs.
For now, my mother is steady. I have moved the job and have money to eat and live on and possibly insurance. I have some artistic visions battering around in my head. I have a heart that wobbles in my chest. I have blankets on the bed.