I’m still doing all those things I’m supposed to be doing, waiting for this sense of OKness to rise up from inside and make me whole. Diet! Exercise! Oil Cleansing Method! They are all prophetic of late. I’ve traded in my dry skin for break-outs, and my weight stays exactly
My brain turned off a few weeks ago. A surge protector switch flipped, or vestigial hibernation happened, or something. The part that thinks is now in the dark, inaccessible. I can’t seem to kick it back on. I’m eating healthy, not drinking, getting exercise, changing clothes, smiling at children, etc.
My theory this week: As an emotional eater, my fat actually captures all my sad/angry feels, encapulates them, and deposits them on my ass, rendered inert in their little fatty bubble. This is why food is comforting — got lots of rage and sadness? We need fat molecules STAT to
Despite being sure about the therapy thing, the comments suggesting it have stayed with me. It’s empowering to defy popular opinion and flounce, to define myself by what I’m not going to do. The main problem, is that if I’m not going to therapy, I have to take responsibility for
A couple of posts ago, I received a small groundswell of comments urging me to get into therapy. At first I was all, Lulz, what do you think this blog is, if not my hour? But that was only marginally funny at first, and increasingly less so as more comments