Pity Party

Can you hear that sound? It’s a high, irritating noise – almost into the “only dogs can hear” range. It’s me. Whining. You can leave if it becomes too distracting.

I hate diets. I hate them. I hate them. I hate them. I hate them more when I really do not want to me on them. Does anyone want to be on one? Probably not. Do I need to be? Yes. Do I want to be? Hell no.

Drug addicts, alcoholics, sex addicts… they are told, “stay away from it”. Don’t even have one drink. Don’t hang around others who do. Please tell me how do I avoid eating and people who are eating? It’s right up there with breathing… one of those things we really need to do to survive.

Everywhere you look there is food. There are advertisements for food. There are people eating. In their cars, on the street, in my living room.

I like food. Hell, I love food. Chicken and noodles with mashed potatoes, gooey macaroni and cheese, simmering beef stew, buttery stroganoff, homemade bread – still warm, tall glasses of frosty cold milk, right from the oven chocolate chip cookies, I could go on and on. Why can’t I be one of those picky people who can eat three pieces of lettuce with a side of twigs and be happy?

I’m trying to be good. I am. I’ve almost totally eliminated the Pepsi from my life – again – and have been a huge grouch (sorry Hubs). We took our readings this morning and his is normal – better than normal. I’m still in the ozone. I’m eating all the same stuff he is and most of it is edible. Still, I feel like I’m missing something. I’m walking around with an empty feeling. I can hear the psychologists having a field day about now. Yes, I understand I’m using food as a crutch. Yes, I’m medicating myself with food. Yes, I’m using it for comfort. Yes, yes, yes… I know. But I’m hungry.

I’ve been told I am a good cook. I take some pride in my cooking. My cooking is the “homestyle” cooking, though. It isn’t the 1” square of meat with the three string beans arranged artfully across it. It’s the fill up the plate with something substantial and the health charts be damned.

I feel guilty for whining. There are people who are dealing with way worse things – cancer, breathing problems, chronic pain. Me? I just whine because I can’t push myself away from food. Let the pity party begin.