Food IS love

I finished it. I love books that make me cry. Writing that hits you right in the feels. Geneen Roth, if you’re out there, thank you.

I think I’ve been gauging my healing from a limited perspective: mirrors and success in 12-step programs. What I look like. What I don’t look like. What I’m not doing. Telling myself it’s okay to try something different, with my brainwashed “you WILL drink again if you don’t work a program and go to meetings” brain barging in. Am I just being a rebellious child? IS there only one way to long-term sobriety?

Maybe my parents didn’t hit me or abuse me. They didn’t grossly neglect me.

I do remember coming home from school to an empty house, a full fridge with easy to make food aka junk food/my escape.

My dad telling me he’s gonna do something, spend time with me, my mom telling me the same… And being let down a lot. “I’m tired! I work hard to keep food on the table! I deserve a day of rest!”

As an adult, I understand. As a child, I’m hurt. Confused. Helpless. Unloved. An annoyance. Alone. Sad.

Today I came home from work and ate an Oreo with Jif. It was SO good.

The next one was just as satisfying.

Third, fourth, and fifth all just kinda tasted like an artificial too-sweet cookie. So to punish myself and to eat something beyond cookies for dinner, I ate 24 pizza rolls dipped in ranch and Siracha. Plus 2 glasses of milk. Because Oreos without milk is… depressing.

I was full. I ate too much. I’m still full now, 5 hours later. I didn’t finish the bag of pizza rolls. I didn’t eat the ice cream because I didn’t want it. I read MBTI Funky Fiction on Tumblr and cried, when I read something that resonated with me. “That’s so me!” as I’m blubbering.

While finishing the book, I was sad it was ending, I was accepting that I am sensitive, that I cry a lot, over seemingly nothing, and that’s okay. Maybe I just need to get in touch with my body, with my life, and stop being a spectator. Meditation will probably help with that, if I allow myself to do it.

P.S. Obscure movie quotes are kinda my thing… and this kinda fits the theme, if not the actual oreo/milk declaration…

“They went together like lamb and tuna fish!… Maybe you prefer spaghetti and meatball? You more comfortable with that analogy?”

“Yes, considering we’re in America! I mean if you don’t like spaghetti and meatballs, why don’t you just get the hell out?”

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