It’s a quarter to one in the morning and my head is killing me. I’m sore all over, as if I have the flu. I can’t sleep. Not a bit tired, anyway. I’m starving, but I’m not. I could eat, but I don’t need to eat. To those of you out there that love the taste of food as much as I do, you’ll understand.
This feeling is not unlike the DTs I went through with nicotine and alcohol. Shoot, even when I came off the 80mg Oxycontin I’d been taking for the six months leading up to my last back surgery, those withdrawals went smoother than this. That’s a real shame. To be this addicted to something my body requires, and to be addicted to the wrong types of it. I want cake and chocolate and biscuits and gravy and AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH! This is why I was 410 pounds. This is why I’m currently 360 pounds. I want to eat for the sheer joy of eating. I want to stuff my face until my stomach feels like it’s going to burst. You want to hear something crazy? I’ve actually eaten so much food in one sitting that I was worried my stomach would rupture. I waddled over to my laptop and Googled whether or not it was possible and found out that I would actually throw up before I would explode.
It’s too easy being addicted to food. People bring it up and everyone comes to the rescue. “Don’t belittle him! Fat people need love, too!” I almost wish I were addicted to something like crack or meth just so people would give it to me straight. “Listen, crackhead, you’re killing yourself. Stop.” I’m not condoning bullying, I’m simply saying that being fat is a societal norm now, and it shouldn’t be. There are too many crutches and not enough broken bones.
Rant over. If you made it this far, I commend you. I don’t know if I could listen to another human being whine this badly.
This is my not amused face.