June 13th, 2012: If I could, I would like to go back in time to the point at which food became a drug for me. Like so many changes in life, there was likely no singularity, but rather a set of events and my responses to them that created this issue. My responses were formed partly from biology/genetics, and also from experiences – nature vs. nurture.
Anyway, what was supposed to be a solid diet/training week turned into a fiery food wreck yesterday, and it’s because I’m not like those Olympic athletes who maintain that food is simply fuel. I’m closer to that disheveled and stressed-out guy that is looking for his next hit of meth or heroin or bottle of whiskey. It happens so fast, and I don’t understand why I can’t simply live by the phrase “not even once” when it comes to straying from the program. I am simply not strong enough. Yet.
I didn’t weigh today. I don’t want to risk adding insult to injury. I think I’m more nervous about Saturday than I’m admitting to myself. The week is half-over and we’re almost there. I had a great morning run yesterday. I did some core work. I drank one of those big zero-calorie Arnold Palmer iced tea’s. I did some yard work, then just piddled around.
In the late afternoon I decided that because I did so well on the run and stuff that I could have move a bit out of my program lane and have a protein bar. The protein bar, of course, was delicious. There was a dozen of them in pantry when I started – 350 calories each. Soon there weren’t any in the pantry. Within 30 minutes I had consumed 4,200 calories. And you don’t think I stopped there do you?
I’m having trouble liking myself today.
June 13th, 2020: This is one of those posts where I feel sorry for that 2012 me. I think about launching myself off the program at least once every day. When I think of food as a drug, I think of it just like I did beer back in the day. If I were sad, I knew beer would make me happy. If I were happy, beer would just make me happier. I couldn’t go wrong. I couldn’t go wrong, that is, until I would finish the beer and have a massive hangover the next morning.
My hangovers were probably 25% physical, 75% guilt-driven psychological. But, at least with beer it would wait until the morning to get at me – well, hang on there, maybe I’m onto something…
…Food makes me happy – not happy, whilst bingeing. I loved the taste of those Gatorade bars I bet – for about 3 of them. And then, fuck, I don’t know why I’d keep going! But, then I’ve got to live with that shit without being drunk for the rest of the day. And the more food I eat, the less tasty it is, and the sicker I get. But…But…as opposed to alcohol, at least when I wake up the next morning after a food fuckup it can be a new day, and there really isn’t a hangover, so to speak.
Ah, it’s all just a mental game.
Don’t they say pain is inevitable, but misery is optional?
