Weird night.

Back in the dieting days, I’d frequently go to bed at 8:30.  See, I talk on the phone with my husband every night from 7:30 - 8:30 (”talk” sometimes meaning “watch TV together”).  After our conversation, I’d feel adrift.  Alone, untethered, anxious.  And I wanted to eat. 

 I didn’t think of myself as an emotional eater, because pre-dieting, I’d never engaged in that sort of behavior.  But I recognize now that dieting turned me into one.  I would feel anxious, and eating in a really aggressive, face-stuffing kind of way calmed me for a moment.  It distracted me from those pesky feelings that sometimes rise to the surface when you get really tired of living 600 miles away from your husband, when the dogs won’t stop fighting with each other, when your checkbook balance has gotten insanely low (thanks to overspending, my answer to restrictive eating), when your ankle is throbbing but you know you have to get up in the morning and run.

Stuff, stuff, stuff…that will shut things up.

So, I’d go to bed to stay out of the kitchen.  That really makes you feel like you can’t trust yourself, you know? 

Tonight I want to eat, eat, eat.  I don’t care what.  I want large quantities and I want them now.  I’m not going to indulge, because I get that I need to deal with the feelings, not the anxiety.  Treat the illness, not the symptoms, right?

It’s hard, though.  Tonight is really, really hard.