Food is a Monster   Leave a comment

I love food.  I watch cooking shows, and read cookbooks for fun, and would happily try a new restaurant every single night.  Food is comfort.

I hate food.  I categorize foods as good or bad, healthy or unhealthy, and vacillate between restriction and overindulgence.  Food is misery.

I’m trying Weight Watchers again, along with a modified version of the DASH plan.  I don’t know how many times this makes that I’ve tried squeeze myself into the WW model – it worked once, and so I keep going back to it even though I have enormous issues with the mixed messages I get.  I’m also exercising more often, largely because I’m in the water three days a week and it doesn’t make sense not to swim laps when I’m there…and I’m sure it is making me more fit since I’m not getting winded as often, but I am not (to my knowledge) shedding a single pound…and my brain starts the endless loop all over again.

Have I mentioned that I actually haven’t been on a scale in six months, because seeing the number is a trigger?  Have I mentioned that I know that there’s no direct correlation between being overweight and being unhealthy, and that I encourage people to be happy in their own skin even as I try to peel my own off?  Have I mentioned that I have dreams about machines with gripping pincers that attach to the lower abdomen and just pull the fat person out of my body?

I think, although I can’t really remember, that I originally kept on weight after my son was born as a kind of armor to protect myself from being treated as a sexual object…even while being pleased to be objectified.  And once the weight was on, it was easy to add more.  I’m not sure about this, though – it feels right, but incomplete.  Also, no matter how fat I get, there are always people who want to fuck me – and I think they’re surprised by it.  They shouldn’t be – if nothing else is going for me, I’ll always have my kavorka, and so keeping weight on isn’t really armor in that sense.

I might have kept the weight on as a rebellion against my parents, since my son and I lived with them until he was six, and my mother was constantly harping on what I ate, and how much I weighed, and why didn’t I get on the rowing machine now???  Still, it’s been twenty years now; shouldn’t I be past all that?  And then I remember that I still don’t eat what I want to eat when I’m with my parents – I eat what I think they think I should be eating…and here comes the loop again.


I think it’s time to figure out how to work with this monster, how to feed it and fuck it senseless, because the ways I’ve been trying to fight it aren’t working, and I want some fucking french fries now.

Bad body image!  No biscuit!


Posted October 13, 2014 by veggiewolf in Depression, Food, monsters, self-esteem, Triggers

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