Shitty Spa Day

Woman Has Diarrhea Holding Her Butt on Isolated White Background

If I don’t die in my sleep, I will wake up tomorrow 8 days sober. I haven’t put together 8 consecutive days of sobriety in almost 10 years.

However, my pain pill addiction is a beast of its own. I am fiercley in love with opiates. I know this because pills consume my every thought, and I hate them as much as I love them. That’s what love is, right?

So after scoring Oxycodone from my crack head ex-husband who just got out of the hospital after breaking 3 ribs in a botched robbery attempt, I decided to cash in my Mother’s Day present:  I called and scheduled an appointment for an hour-long massage, followed by a body slimming mud wrap and a pedicure from a fancy hotel spa.

I had been taking enough pills to knock out small horse over the last few days. This I never intend to do, but always do.  This behavior is never intentional, but always the case. Because I am, by definition, insane. I repeat the same behavior over and over, each time expecting a different outcome. It’s always the same. As an addict, I think, “I’m gonna save them for when I need them this time.” Yeah right, I take them everyday until they are gone.

Because of the amount I had been taking, I took a few laxatives the night prior to my spa appointment.  Once again, enough to make a small horse shit out its lunch for an entire week.  Opiates halt any and all activity in the gut.  This is the down side of taking pain pills.  I have an eating disorder as well, so looking fat devastates me.  Sometimes the laxatives work, sometimes not. Even without the opiates, my system doesn’t cooperate. I am in no way regular. A can consume a can of refried beans, a handful of prunes and a cup of coffee…most would be bursting at the seams. Nope. Not this girl. Needless to say I was disappointed when I didn’t poop yesterday morning. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t bloated for the massage. I guess I am addicted to laxatives too. Jesus.

My appointment was set for 1:15.  By 11:30 I felt the rumbling begin. “Oh thank god,” I thought at my desk. Come on, come on, come on,” as I anxiously watched the clock.” I happily pranced to the bathroom knowing my day at the spa was going to be just as I envisioned. But I should have know better.  Laxatives completely flush me out. COMPLETELY.  At least give it an hour, maybe 2 until it’s a clear liquid.  Then I know my tummy is empty and I feel thin.  I raced to the bathroom 2 more times before I left for the spa.

“Shit, I thought as I sat on the toilet with my head in hands. Why did I do that? I should have just waited until tonight to take them… Or I should have taken a couple more to make sure I was done by this time of day.” There is a fine line you must walk when taking laxatives. I didn’t want to wake up at 3 am with diarrhea.  First of all, my girlfriend would know, who’s all about letting nature perform this act as she is ‘miss normal’ in all areas. Secondly, she would shit if she knew I was taking pills again.  I had diarrhea. And it was only starting.  Fuck, there was no way I was making it to my anticipated and much needed spa day without the fear of when I was going to shit again. I needed at least 5 or 6 trips to the toilet and time was running out.

Upon my arrival, the spa staff insisted I was 15 minutes late and I insisted I was fifteen minutes early.  I was escorted to a small room to change into my hand-selected robe.  Now, feeling pressure because apparently I was making everyone wait who was scheduled to pamper me (Pampers would have been perfect), I rushed across the dimly lit hall to the bathroom.  A tiny and elegant room. I sat down and poop shot out of me at max speed. Dread hit me harder than shit hit that porcelain.  And oh my god, that smell could empty an auditorium faster than Milli Vanilli.  I felt a little relief when I spotted the purple can. You know, the lavender-scented Lysol?  Of course that’s the one they chose.  The yellow or green can doesn’t scream luxurious spa like the lavender one, those let you know you’re in gas station or an old person’s house. After leaving the bathroom, I was positive everyone would know it was me who created that god awful smell.  I walked in to meet my massage therapist.  It was a guy.  An extremely hot guy. He must have been in his late 20’s.  He had mocha skin and perfectly chiseled muscles. He spoke with a seductive voice. He had a smile that came with a flirtatious smirk and the sexiest set of dimples. I was about to get a full body massage from LL Cool J and I was clenching my ass.

This was my first full body massage.  I had never had a massage from a man (with the exception of my ex-husband, thereby making it perfectly acceptable to fart.)  No one asked me upon scheduling my appointment if I had a preference for a male or female.  I would have chosen female, but whatever. It was too late. As I sat there soaking my feet and clenching by butt cheeks together wishing I had just a little more time to shit before my massage, he explained to me what would transpire over the next hour.

“What do you mean by full body?” I blurted out.

He flashed a dimple.  I wondered if he was thinking, “Thank god I didn’t get another cow shaped house wife whose muscles I can’t even get to under all the Twinkie residue.”

“Well, I will start with you on your back. I will massage your neck and temples. Then I will turn you over and continue with your shoulders, arms, lower back. Then I’ll do each leg starting with your glutes and thighs slowly moving down to your calves and feet.”

Oh my fucking god! Did he just say glutes? This amazingly hot version of Drake is going to rub my butt. What if at that very moment I have to shit?  I’ll clench and he will know because my cellulite will pop out. Why is this happening?  I just wanted to enjoy a massage.  I am supposed to be relaxing. What a fucking idiot. Of course I screwed this up. I screw everything up. Even my own Mother’s Day present.

“Does that sound good?” Usher replied.

“Yes.” I said pensively.

“Okay, go ahead and take off your robe and get under the sheet face up.  I’ll be right back.”

Oh my god. Turn me over? There is absolutely nothing one can say in that situation that doesn’t  scream sex.

“Just relax, be listless, he whispered. Let me do all the work, when I move you, just be heavy and let it happen, don’t try to help.”  I can’t believe he can describe a massage without knowing he sounds like a steamy R&B song.

I was naked and so not fearless. Without those damn laxatives everything would be perfect right now. I could relax while LL Cool J squeezed my butt cheek and appreciated that I’m not just another white girl with a flat ass, but a rather ample ass any black man would admire. But I was so nervous.  I had to shit. Why god why?  I knew he could tell I was tense.  He’s a massage therapist for fuck sakes. “It’s ok girl, just breathe. You’ll be fine. It’ll pass,” I reassured myself.  I prayed by the time he got down there I didn’t have an urge to poop.  What if some just slipped out and I couldn’t stop it?  I wondered if that had ever happened to him before, some lady just farting in that small room.  Except for this wouldn’t be just any gas, it would be lethal and possibly visible.

Glute time had arrived. I quickly went back in my memory to anatomy 101.  My glute was in fact my buttocks, right? Why didn’t he just say buttocks? Maybe he meant upper thigh. I silently panicked, “Okay, it’s happening, there’s no getting up and running.” I suppose I could.  But I’m the type to lay quietly holding my breath, hoping nothing horrifying happens.  I’m not the type to speak up and blurt “Stop, I have use the restroom, or… Stop, I made a horrible mistake by coming here. I have to go. I forgot to pick up my kid.  Don’t worry, your tip will exceed your expectation.”

This immensely hot massage therapist who just stepped out of Playgirl magazine was ready for my ass.  He slowly rolled up the sheet all the way until I felt the entire right side of my body exposed to the warm air. I felt his hand wrap around my ankle.  He lifted up my leg ( I swear my vagina was in plain sight for him to examine while my leg was extended, thank god I had shaved). If he was my boyfriend, this is when penetration would occur. He tucked the sheet under me so it wouldn’t be in the way. He saturated his hands with oil and immersed his hands into my gluteus maximus. My eyes bounced back and forth inside that horseshoe shaped hole from wide opened to squeezed shut as my brain screamed” Please don’t have to shit, please not now. Just a few more minutes. Damn why can’t I be enjoying this like I am supposed to? God this feels good. Deep breath.  It’s all good. He’s moving down. He’s going down. It’s almost over. He’s at my calf. Okay, Breath. ” I had made it through one ass cheek.

As my perfect shade of chocolate massage therapist pursued my other side, by the time my vagina-exposing, sheet-curling moment began, so did my tummy. As the gurgling increased, I was sure he could hear it. I pictured the smirk on his face. That half smile. And oh, those dimples.  It was happening, I needed to pass some gas.  Except in this situation, the only thing passing would be liquid down my thigh, not to mention a smell reminiscent of a dead possum from the garage. I squeezed. I had to.  As I clenched my face and my ass, I hoped he wouldn’t start rubbing before it passed.  He had to have seen my butt squeezed so hard there was no doubt I was holding in a fart.  Mortified, it finally passed.  I hoped nothing had bubbled out while almost passing out from a mixture of fear and holding my breath.  He began the final stretch of my massage.  Damn it felt good.  No one ever rubs my ass. By this point, relaxing was out of the question.  I just breathed and waited.

“Okay, we’re finished. Take your time getting up. You may feel a little light-headed. Your robe is on the chair.  I’ll be waiting for you outside the door with a glass of water.”

“Jesus Christ,” I thought as I walked out of the room.  I felt it come on like someone had just turned on a water hose inside my gut.  I had to go.  For real. I was gonna blow.  I graciously took the glass of water.  I waited for him to finish his spew of directions telling me to “just relax” and wait for the next person who had apparently been tapping her nails waiting 15 minutes to pamper me.  Of course she was ready. Of course she was ready.  I, however, was not.  As he walked away, I set down my glass, clenched my butt cheeks together and tip-toed to the bathroom.   It smelled like a newborn’s diaper in there; from one hour ago when I shit the first time.  Embarrassed, because now every employee knew it was me who rancidized their entire facility, I sat down and let it out.

I was now ready for my mud wrap.  “It’s okay,” I thought, if anything leaks out,  at least I’ll be covered in mud. I’ll match.”

I made it through the rest of my appointment without incident. Well, except the part where I split my pants in the crotch while getting dressed before my pedicure. I looked in the mirror from behind. It was only visible if I bent over.  How fitting. A hole conveniently placed so I could shoot out shit while getting my toe nails painted. I hoped the manicurist wouldn’t mind.

“I’m so sorry for the mess, Miss manicurist. And about that dead possum smell.  Don’t worry, your tip will exceed your exception.”

DRUNK

alcoholism

Let’s get really drunk.

Let’s get fucked up.

I don’t want to feel how much I hate myself.

Let’s wait until morning, shall we ?

So I can yell and scream about how fat I am because I drink too much.

About how miserable I feel because I want to write my memoir,

But I can’t because I work all the time.

And when I an not working, I am with you and the kids.

I want to drink until I can no longer feel.

I do it nearly every night.

I have to work tomorrow.

I know I will wake up a mess,

I will care when I see the bags under my eyes.

I will hate myelf.

Something I am used to though.

Right now, I have  a beer and a shot in front of me.

Been drinking since the AM,

I don’t give a fuck right now.

I am a tortured soul.

If it weren’t for my 2 children, I would die right now.

I hurt,

I will hurt tomorrow.

I was once a homeless crack addict,

This should not be as bad as it feels,

As horrible as the past,

But it is.

My name is Melisa.

I am an alchoholic.

And no one understands me..

So here’s to another day of drunkesness,gaining weight, and forgetting I am a parent of 2 beautiful children,

Fucking miserable.

I just wanna be high all the time….

Help me.

Please.

Collide

shame

You are not what you have done.

Nor are you the result of what’s been done to you.

You are an angel.

You are not the beer bottles lined up against the wall from the night before.

You are not the empty wrappers in the garbage.

You are not the empty containers left on the kitchen counter.

You wish you could remember before you see it.

The rubble.

But it doesn’t work that way.

The black out begins at the first sip.

It ends after the last bite.

The fog is thick when you open your eyes.

Here comes the shame.

It is heavy.

struggle

Your true self is buried underneath what you see in the mirror.

You are not your gray hairs.

You are not your stretch marks.

You are beautiful to everyone, why not yourself?

An invisible string attaches the head to the heart.

Yours has been severed.

When you feel your heart, you over think.

When you think, your heart gets in the way.

You are not your identity crisis.

You are simply awaiting to emerge.

struggle quote

The Vessel

scissors-girl

She sat up in the bathtub.

She watched the small tornado forcefully sink into the drain.

She was suddenly aware of her entire body.

A vessel once used for love.

It now embodies the significance of her death.

Her sanity drains from her mind with the same brutality as the tornado swirling before her eyes.

Tell Me I Can Stay

bipolar

Who says I can’t.

Who says I have to write “can not” instead of “can’t” to be a good writer.

I do.  I say.

I say I can write it that way and I say I can live that way.

I don’t say it as much as I think it.

I can’t do this anymore.

I just CAN’T.

 

Why did you say I don’t need to come here anymore?

What do I have to do to convince you that I really am crazy, I just hide it well.

Perhaps hiding it makes me more crazy.

If you let me go, I may just let go too.

Snap.

 

I resent that you said that.

Am I wasting your time?

Am I wasting mine?

I hate myself today just as much as I did the first day I walked in here and sat down in this chair.

If I am so much better now, why do I still self destruct?

 

Why do I eat and drink so much,

Wake up the next morning, curse myself in the mirror and do it all over again?

It’s almost 1 pm.

There’s a bottle of wine in the cupboard.

I want it.

I have to leave here in 3 ½ hours to come and see you.

I never drink first.

Not because I care about myself,

But because I care about you.

I suppose it would be disrespectful.

And I would be mortified if you smelled alcohol on me and confronted me.

Not to mention drinking and driving.

But shit like that never stops me.

It’s high risk behavior.

Isn’t that why I am here?

 

I didn’t quite make it the bathroom in time this morning.

Laxatives.

I stopped taking them for a while.

But it’s a small price to pay to feel just a little thinner.

I need to get rid of everything I ate and drank last night.

An eating disorder?

Ya.

But I don’t look like I have one.

Just like I don’t look crazy.

 

She said she loved me this morning.

I said “Thank You.”

I am not sure I am in love anymore.

I am not quite certain how to love.

 

The other one called and told me she fell last night and had to 911 for help to get back in her chair.

I felt empty.

Sad.

Disgusted.

I gave my feelings away a long time ago.

I have nothing left to give.

I have half of my life left.

Yet all of my feelings have been used.

 

Do I sympathize?

Empathize?

I can’t even remember the difference.

 

Sometimes I watch her from the chair.

My blood boils as she breathes.

She breathes heavily because she is in pain.

It irritates me.

Why so dramatic?

She’s supposed to taking care of me, god dammit.

My drama.

My pain.

This is about me.

 

I have nothing left to give.

I am numb.

She’s watching a comedian on TV.

I had to come to the bedroom to write this.

I can’t listen to a man rant about fat women, crack cocaine and blow jobs.

There is nothing funny about that.

Not to me.

Doesn’t she know that?

Most of my trauma comes from crack pipes and forced sex.

I can feel the anger well up in my throat, the tears behind my eyes.

I want to scream.

But I can’t.

I feel crazy.

But I can’t let it out.

I hate myself.

 

Who are these women I speak of?

They’ll never know.

I’ll never tell.

 

People don’t change.

So why am I sitting here?

Why am I on my bed instead of at the table?

Healthy people can laugh when they hear jokes about blow jobs and crack.

 

So then why I am I here with you?

If I am so healthy why the hell am I here?

Tell me you didn’t mean it.

Tell me I can stay.

Even though I can’t change.

I want to stay.

No one else gets me.

I have no where else to go.

 

 

Inside The Tomb of Self

addiction mental illness

 

I can barely keep my head above water.  I panic when I can’t breathe.   I am teetering on this fence called Mental Illness.  It is worsening.  I can’t get my pain out of my head.  I can’t stop screaming at myself and all those around me, especially my loved ones, who strangely make all of this worse despite their loving intentions to help.

 

I just don’t want to go on.  I feel like wasted space, artlessly breathing air which could be more useful to someone else.  I sound like a whining, spoiled baby.  This I know.  But I can’t help it.  These thoughts are happening in my head and when I try and explain this to my family, I feel worse. I feel defeated and stuck because they do not understand.

 

Someone once said something simple yet impactful that I have never let go of…. “Inside the tomb of self.”   I feel without a doubt that I am inside the tomb of self.  I can’t see beyond what I am feeling.  I can’t take a breathe without exhaling the discomfort of my existence.  I hate the way this sounds, but only you will understand me.   My PTSD, Bipolar Disorder, MDD, and Anxiety may never go away.  I am okay with that.

 

It is my addiction that is killing me.

dual-diagnosis

 

At this very moment, I am doing what all addicts do.  I am mourning my obsessions.  Yes, they kill me, but I need them.   I have been on a mission to self destruct since the age of 14 when I endured the first of many suicide attempts.  Although I want to get better and be healthy for my children, at the same time I cannot control the impulses I have to drink and take pills.  I whittled my alcohol intake down to 3 beers last night. (after being fall down drunk playing football in the yard with my kids the night before).  I had zero Vicodin yesterday.  The only ‘feel good’ drug I have left is my Valium.  And I don’t even feel the effects of those anymore unless I take 2 or 3 at a time.

 

My dilemma here is that I am not only struggling with myself, I am also fighting with my family.  None of who understand addiction or mental illness.  I feel so alone in this.  My girlfriend is home after being away 3 months for work, during which time I almost killed myself and others by crashing my car into ditch, wiping out a couple of mailboxes.  After the horribly failed field sobriety tests, being handcuffed and placed in the back of an SUV, the police let me go with a ticket and the charge of a Hit and Run.  I am so lucky I didn’t get a DUI.  I most certainly deserve one.  I have a court date pending for the Hit and Run.  I fled the scene after hitting the mailboxes because I needed to be home when kids got off the bus.  I was driving drunk in a neighborhood where kids were getting out of school and off buses.  One would think this was my wake up call.  One would think I would quit drinking, at least quit drinking and driving.  Wrong.

 

Now I have to explain to my kids when they see alcohol in the cart at the grocery store, that I do not intend to drive.  “Mom, I thought you said you weren’t going to drink anymore?”  I did say that.  But I can’t stop.  I don’t want to.  But I wish I could.

 

I felt so frustrated parenting these kids alone while she was gone.  I drank to feel better.  This is why I feel so useless.  I gave birth to these kids, but that’s about it.  I am grumpy and just want to numb myself and lay in bed.  What kind of a mother is that?  I feel a disconnect.  Not just with them, but with everyone and everything.  My girlfriend started crying this morning.  She said I scared her and that she doesn’t want me to leave her and the kids.  Meaning she doesn’t want me to kill myself, intentional or not.  I comforted her, but really felt no emotion.  Inside my head was that reliable voice I always hear telling me I am not worthy of love and everyone would be better off without me.

 

Yesterday, at the grocery store.  I wanted to buy some beer.   My “emergency stash” was depleted.  After the accident, I kept alcohol hidden around the house so I could drink and no one could see and judge me.  I liken it to someone with an eating disorder (which I have as well, and yes I binge when no one is looking)   who stashes food all around the house and eats in secret.   I kept emergency beer in the garage, in the trunk of the car, in my drawers and under the bathroom sink.  I never thought my alcoholism would come to this intense level of panic and desperation.  I feel like a small child who has to ask permission to drink.  Yes, I get a little out of hand at times.  Often, once I start, I cannot stop.  And like any addict, I think I can control it.  But still, I didn’t like having to ask permission.

 

When we got home, it was 6 PM.  It was way past my happy hour.  All day with no pills and no alcohol.  I was restless and shaking and bitchy.  I had 3 beers over the course of the night.  That’s way less than normal.  I am happy this morning because I am not hungover, and I actually remember everything.  I am at the point of blacking out and can rarely remember instances from the night before.  I have to sit on the side of the bed upon waking and search my brain for shreds of memories.  Sometimes I have to ask the kids what they had for dinner the night before.

 

 

Once again, you would think I wouldn’t want to drink anymore.  Right now I don’t.  In 4 hours, I’ll be jonesing.  At least I have 3 beers left in the fridge.  But then what?  What about tomorrow?  I have no emergency stash.  And my Vicodin, if it’s refilled, she doesn’t want me to get.  I just have to deal with back pain like she does everyday.  Well, I don’t deal with pain the way the average person does, the way she does.  The Vicodin not only helps my back pain, it helps my emotional pain.  I swallow a pill and feel immediate relief.  Relief from everything and everyone.  I am able to go outside and play with the kids, when otherwise I would feel too depressed and be in bed.  I already asked her if I could pick up the pills, take one, hand her the bottle, and give them to me on an ‘as needed’ basis.  She doesn’t want me going through the withdrawals again.  I don’t blame her.  Opiate withdrawals are the worst kind.  It is without a doubt the most uncomfortable feeling I have ever experienced.   Childbirth is more bearable.

 

My addiction is telling me to lie.  That little voice in my head is planning on going to the pharmacy without telling her.  But she bases so much of our relationship on trust.  I can’t get the Vicodin out of my head.  What the hell am I supposed to do?  My only option is to tell her I am going to get them and if she doesn’t like it, oh well.  At least I am telling her and not hiding it.  I feel like a fucking child.  I hate this.  I should be able to make my own choices.  Even if they hurt everyone around me.  That way they will all leave me alone to self destruct.

 

So why in the world do I want more?  Because I don’t want to be uncomfortable!

 

That’s my life in a nutshell.  Avoiding discomfort.  The whole point of my therapy is to deal with my trauma head on, which I cannot do numb.  See my dilemma?  However, for normal people, this is not a dilemma.  This is a “Well just stop” solution.  A “Just say no” solution.  If I could stop this craziness that makes me want to shoot myself, jump off bridges, and drive into oncoming traffic, I fucking would!

 

There is no easy solution for this.  Not only do I have a mental Illness, I am chemically dependent.  This is called “Co-occurring.”   Two diagnoses.   Two problems that keep me from enjoying my life.  The challenge is understanding which came first.  Which one causes the other to worsen.  I know that I can do better and feel better.  Is it just an excuse to say this isn’t my fault?  I was born this way?  I feel torn between taking no responsibility and taking steps to get better.   It is so much easier to succumb to my every impulse, than to mold myself into a disciple.

 

I am so frustrated with life.  Everything hurts.  In every possible way.  I am grateful for my kids and for my partner who for some reason wants to be with me for the rest of our lives.  I feel like more a burden than a blessing.  That’s all I can say right now.

billboards

 

Who Gives a Shit.

eatingdisordersThis is an update on the insight I had a few days ago and posted regarding my eating disorder.

I am entering my fourth week of therapy after a long absence. With my lapse in medical insurance and a chaotic 3 years of divorce, bankruptcy, unemployment, moving, and just a new start in general, I have neglected to maintain either the progress or deterioration of my mental health. However, on the flip side of that same coin, I must remember that all of the above took place with high priority so that I could, in fact, keep my mental health in tact.

So here I am, sitting with the same issues that have accompanied me since adolescence. These issues feel somehow magnified now. I believe this is a result of the chaos in my life quieting down. With this quiet from external intrusions comes the sudden awareness of the noises within. Images from an ugly past, memories, nightmares, my addictions and obsessions have suddenly magnified and manifested themselves. I have, without warning, had to play “whack a mole” against a crafty opponent. My own mind.

It’s like there is a long thread that has been woven into the center of my heart and soul. It’s been there since I was born and it will still be with me when I die. I compare it to an affliction with changing symptoms. Like a woman who changes her clothes. Her name is mental illness. She has many outfits. She has disguised herself as many different calamities, all which have plagued me at different times since childhood.

Currently, my eating disorder is her wardrobe of choice. It is difficult for me to even admit or say the terms “mental illness” or “eating disorder.” It feels uncomfortable and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the stigma that accompanies such things. It’s one matter to be uncomfortable saying it aloud, but to feel uneasy saying it in the privacy of my own head alarms me.

In the last few days I have decided to take charge of my brain in a new way. I am unsure of the outcome and do not know if it will work, or even change anything. What if I get worse? But, what if I get better? I posted a few days ago how it is not healthy for me right now to be obsessing over diet and exercise. It has consumed me. I came to the conclusion that I will never be happy as long as I chase after this perfection, attainable or not. I am undergoing an experiment. This morning, painful as it was, I ate 2 hash browns, 2 eggs and 1 and a half pieces of swiss cheese. I wouldn’t allow my eggs to be cooked in butter. I’ll save that for a more courageous day. Normally, this meal would have ruined my day and crushed any enthusiasm I had for the day. I don’t know how many calories I ingested, and that’s okay, because my goal is to not give a shit. These foods are not unhealthy just sitting there on a plate to most people. However, I see something completely different. Rather, the feeling provoked in me upon seeing the food is what is different. I don’t even need to see it. Just thinking about it is enough to send me into a spiral of self loathing. It is like my brain is at war with my body. I want to be “normal” and eat what other people eat. But when I do allow myself this, I feel like I have done myself a huge injustice. Because one of my biggest fears is gaining weight.

I have been wrestling with this since I was a teenager. I want more than anything to be over it. Maybe in two weeks when my pants don’t fit, I’ll change my mind. But for right now my daily goal is no not give a shit. It sounds simple, I am sure, to those who walk with confidence. For me, confidence can be a moment to moment struggle. And the only way to become confident is to literally not care what anyone is thinking of you. I will practice this with my family, at the grocery store, and right here with you. When I pass by a mirror or a window and get a glimpse of myself, I am going to feel better knowing that I am not going to waste a whole day trying to change myself.

How I felt sitting in my big red chair again this morning, acutely aware of my fleshy tummy, I had a decision to make. A big one. Breakfast. I was either going into the kitchen to make “the usual,” or I was going to let my other half make what she makes for herself every day, but make it a double. I sat and contemplated. And it hurt. I struggled with my self. The war between my head and my body is an intense one. I ended up surrendering to my instincts, not wanting to revert back to my old behavior too quickly, without allowing this experiment to take it’s course. And that was to eat the fucking hash browns that I always decline. It was freeing. This was hours ago and I am just now getting hungry again. In fact, looking at my plate this morning, I was concerned it wouldn’t fill me up. It was like getting more bang for my buck. It looked like less food, but somehow it was more.

So I will continue with this experiment. I am hoping to make leaps and bounds into new territory. I am scared and excited at the same time. Dealing with the painful feelings that I have bypassed with this obsession will not be easy. It will be hard work as my therapist has warned me. But it’s work I want to do. Having an obsession and/or an addiction makes it easy to avoid what’s really going on in the dark corners of my mind. Having this awakening to focus on what I think instead of what others think just may be the biggest victory for me. Ever.

Who gives a shit? That’s my daily affirmation, my homework, my medication.