It's Monday night... well, Tuesday now. Day before therapy day. I was going to try to write here every Monday to gather my thoughts for therapy but it's hard wrangling those sneaky kitty thoughts... they run everywhere, scattered, hiding.
I've always been a little chubby. I've been sort of ok with it. Sadly, I have spent years thinking "if only I lost xx pounds I'd be: A. happier B. more successful C. more outgoing D. _____ fill in the blank with some unattainable adjective.
Always chasing a stupid brass ring, some goofy goal when really, I was always already happy, smart, successful. I was just holding up some fun house mirror so I couldn't see myself that way.
In my past, I built big 'ole walls to keep people away. I guess I didn't want to be judged. It was easier to retreat.
I see that pattern happening again. Wanting to pull the covers over my head and pretend I have no problems. But who doesn't do that? I think it's ok to do a little of that once in a while. A little R&R.
Now, I have someone who relies on me. I have to get out of bed. I don't have the luxury of time to hide away and pick myself apart.
I go to therapy each week. I write here. I'm in support groups. I'm really open with Luther, with my friends and family about how I'm feeling. You'd think these avenues would purge those clawing kitty thoughts right out of my brain.
Sometimes it helps. I feel lighter when it isn't stuck inside my gut, my head. My heart. But man, it's always there. The heaviness of our situation. The weight of dying. Decline. Grief. Sadness. It's stuck somewhere inside me.
To quell this feeling -- I eat. I eat until I'm Thanksgiving full. Luther was diagnosed one year, eight months ago. He's lost about 40 pounds. I've gained 20.
I get it. I know stuff. If I ate right, I'd feel better. If I exercised, I'd feel better. I know this. More to the point, I know - I KNOW - this is emotional eating. I have Brad Pitt in my head constantly saying this:
My life right now seems really out of control. It's being dictated by ALS - a thing I cannot control. I had to quit my job because of it. Become Luther's caregiver. Watch my husband decline. I've lost my sex life, parts of my personal life, my work life, my home, my future with my husband.
It's like this constant, constant grieving process.
On a day to day basis, I don't think like this. All of this simmers under my lid, so to speak. 94% of the time, I'm grateful to have the opportunity to hang out with Luther, we figure out different ways to be intimate. I'm glad I got rid of my townhouse, I've found new ways to reach out to friends and family.
But the remaining 6% is there. Right under the surface. So I shove food in to my face because I don't want to feel it explode. I want to be numb. I've talked about it before: robot mode. Don't feel. Don't think. If I let out the sadness, the anger at how unfair this is, my bitterness at fate, it might never stop.
I want to be Thanksgiving full - it's like that makes me feel satisfied. Weird, huh? Because after, I feel gross and ugly. I think the scales (no pun intended in all this talk about fat) are tipping and the gross/fat part is bugging me more than this need to be in a food coma, which is why I'm writing about it tonight.
I read something interesting: fat is not a feeling. Sad is. Anger is. Love is. Fat is a thing, not a feeling. So stop "feeling" fat. Feel frustrated by it. Or accept it. Whatever... just stop feeling FAT and understand the true feeling and why.
I was supposed to call the Emily Project, per my therapist. I did not do this. Instead, I bought a box of Lucky Charms. I'll end up calling them tomorrow morning so I can tell the therapist I did it. The Emily Project is an eating disorder clinic. It feels crazy to say I have an eating disorder. But you know what? This is a crazy time. My reactions feel crazy. Maybe it's a good idea to ask for help.
I should get to bed. My skinny skinny husband is sleeping. I'm tired but I can't sleep.
Deep thought of the day:
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