A Farce, this Control?
I imagine that inside is a misty forest hemming a black door that opens to darkness. The moonlight filters from behind me, the fog sweeps into the room that exhales from the vacuum seal from years of solitude. Isolation.
Wires crisscross the room, all corners spiderweb down the nexus where a figure slumps. Arms outstretched, interlaced securely in the tightly wrapped wires that had sliced and drawn blood now rusted and dried. Face tilted to the floor, limbs encased in yards and yards of high tensile strength wire. Historic struggle had sliced the wires into soft flesh, embedded the metal into sinew and muscle, bone and tissue.
Like a puppet, tangled in it’s own ropes. Rigorously restricted. So how is it, that despite all of these protocols and restraints, he still gets out.
He gets away. He comes for me. He slips past all my safeguards. He always manages to get past all my defenses to appear before me in my weakest moments. Tantalizing, irresistible- all chocolate and caramel. Fucking bastard.
The next morning, I’ll wake up. Guilt-ridden and sick to my stomach. I’ll shove him out, back to the forest, back to the room where he’s been all along. Fucking avatars.
This forest filled with Japanese huts, each housing their own occupant, secured with high tensile strength wires. Wrapped up in their own restrictions. Restrained.
The forest of Japanese huts, each housing a copy of the same stupid habit. In the forest of my mind, I can’t seem to keep him where he belongs. Locked away. Defeated. Unable to touch me.
It’s an unhealthy addiction. He’s my eating disorder. He’s also my proof. Proof that I only have the illusion of control. Proof that my stamina is still weak.
Proof that I’m alive.
When you stop fighting, you start dying. And I’m not ready to die.
What do you do when you fall down? You get up one more time than you have fallen.
Fall twice, rise thrice.
Fall 459 times, get up 460 times.
Simple math. Brief equation. So much effort to continue. Quantify the effort, the resolve that wears down before the next fall. The erosion of strength.
Till I find myself trapped in the room of darkness. Steel cables wrapped around my limbs, woven around my body, looped around my neck.
The compulsion to surrender is real. He waits patiently for my resolve to wither and fade into dust. Till I’m mindless, ravenous, irrational.
He waits for me to succumb.
Addiction? Not I, said the cat
In so many aspects of my life, I grasp the reigns of control.
- I don’t lose my temper unless pushed beyond the patience of saints.
- I don’t drink frequently or in large quantities.
- I don’t smoke or do drugs or anything like this.
Yet when it comes to food…*sigh
I don’t eat snacks frequently. I eat large meals 3 x a day. Large as in, one meal could fill me for the entire day, but the other 2 meals are just to satisfy brain hunger rather than real hunger.
I can’t think of anyone to blame except me. I can’t blame my mother, who was the role model for my bad habit. I don’t blame my mother at all.
I blame myself. Because ultimately I decided to climb up the shelves, sneak to the fridge, and stuff my face.
Whatever the reason it doesn’t matter. Or does it?
Perhaps it does.
It was defiance. A backhanded way to take control when everything in my life was crushed in the grip of another. A destructive way to seize some illusion of control, to flaunt authority, to stage a mini rebellion that backfired more than it helped.
I thought I could make it bearable. That the rage I swallowed down would be appeased with this subtle defiance. No matter what they did, I would have the last laugh because the moment their backs were turned, I’d eat whatever the fuck I wanted.
I had nothing but time. I could be patient. I could be a ninja, at 3 in the morning, learning to open the fridge without turning on the light. Learning when to unplug the appliance so that the noise and mini fridge-light wouldn’t wake them up.
In my ledger, I came out on top. I had one-upped authority. I won -or so I thought.
Hehehe…ahahahah HAHAHA!!! What a joke. Or should I say, the joke’s on me?
Mother managed to kick her bad eating habits. And now I’m the one she turns to and critiques.
Someone asked me if anyone ever told me I was beautiful. I laughed. “Sure!” I said. “My mom says so all the time. She’ll be like ‘you’re so beautiful, if only you weren’t so FAT.'”
Fuck you I could be a skeleton and I’d still be too fat for you.
Besides, I’m not doing this for you. It’s for me. Thank you, mother, for giving me this legacy.
So, why is this so hard to correct?
Am I supposed to kill him, my tempting addiction? Or do I just chain him down and hope it works this time.
I was reading a story about these two guys struggling with their own personal demons yet supporting each other in their struggles. At one point, one guy turns to the other and said “if you continue to live like this, you’re letting all those people who hurt you win.”
“-And I know how much you like to win.” He finished with a grin.
The other guy scowled, frowned, then tried to smother his smile. “Damnit, I hate when you use logical arguments on me!”
So, let’s use logic.
I haven’t done enough yet. I’ve taken some good initial steps but there is still a lot more I can do.
Time to fully dedicate:
- Walking to work at a regular pace takes 1 hour and 15+ minutes. I’ll start walking part way, and catch the bus for the rest.
- I’m a numbers person, so why am I so phobic of counting calories?
- Emotions drive me to eat, in effect, swallowing it all down. I should go for angry walks, sad walks, depressed walks, unhappy walks, excited walks, happy walks. Hell, I’ll find a tree trunk and whale on it if I can get some exercise out of it!
- Drink more water: I’m pretty sure my dehydration has confused hunger with thirst. So, drinking 32oz in the morning should get me off to a good start, then try to drink an entire gallon throughout the day.
- I’ve come too far to quit: Yes, I failed, but I’m not going to give up. I can’t give up. I’ve made too much progress to lie down here.
- Be patient: one step at a time. Focus on the routine and accomplishing what I need to do one second at a time, one minute at a time, one day at a time.
- Celebrate the progress: Rewarding myself, even if it’s just buying something new, or planning my little house blueprints. Doing something fun as a reward.
- Connect with resources: Asking for help isn’t a weakness. It’s logical and smart.
- Set goals, met goals. This number I’m hovering at seems to be a block for me, a weird numerical block and I don’t understand why it’s such a struggle. But I’ll get past it, even if I don’t weigh in for a week so that I pass it “blind”. Whatever it takes.
- Never forget why: I’m doing this to get back basic, simple life things. Like walking, dancing, wearing nice clothes, being confident, increasing activeness. I can and will do this. I can’t go back, it’ll kill me.
- Don’t forget -you CAN do this.
If you find yourself constantly afflicted by “avatars” of your addiction, get a guard and a bodyguard. Plan out ways that you will approach and tackle the next weak moment. Prepare, practice, and establish good habits. It’s not a NO it’s a LATER. It’s not impossible, it’s ACHIEVABLE.
Sometimes, it isn’t locking up the habit that’s effective. Sometimes, it’s hiring a set of ninjas to help protect you. Protect and prevent. Be proactive.
*Picture credit – by Panky25