Emotional eating

If you’d asked me early last week, or at any earlier point in my life, if I was an emotional eater, I would have told you no. I’ve never been known to try to drown my sorrows in food. Now, I have been known to consume an entire pint of Haagen Dazs (back when it actually was a full pint) or Ben and Jerry’s (before they sold out and the quality of their ice cream plummeted). But I do it because I like ice cream. Not necessarily after a bad day, or a break up, or yada yada yada. These days I only buy Blue Bunny natural vanilla, the ingredients of which are actually pretty good, but I digress. Last week and into this week, I learned something new about myself.

While I’m sure my attempts at being Primal don’t even meet the 80/20 idea, since my birthday last week I know I’ve fallen well short of that. I’ve had rice. And french fries. And nachos. Tonight we had breakcrumbs on the pork and the sauce over pasta. You get the idea. And this isn’t because I was out painting the town red with friends and eating crappy food choices. I wasn’t eating fabulous meals cooked by friends (well, the broccoli garlic chicken cooked by my boyfriend was fabulous). No, instead I was mad. Resentful. And quite a bit sad, and asking myself ‘Why give a shit? I’ll eat whatever the fuck I want.’

See, I have a LONG history of despising my birthday. I think the perfect example to give has always been my 16th birthday, when I invited a shit ton of people over, and only one person showed up. I think I gave up on any happy hopes for my birthdays after that. I held it together well last year for my 30th birthday. I even managed to put together a dinner outing and a drinking outing. This year? Lets just say it’s a week and a half later and I’m still mad. And resentful. And sad. And full of pasta.

I’m not sure where I’m going with this post, but I felt like it needed to be put out there. It’s where I am right now in my attempt to be a mature adult and take care of myself. Some days I do better than others. Right now I’m just trying to pick myself up again and get back on my feet. And not be resentful. Or mad. Or sad.


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