I spent the better part of yesterday wallowing in self-pity. By mid-afternoon, I managed to snap out of it, and decided I'd enjoy making a good dinner in my new kitchen. So, yay for getting over myself, but seriously? I'm so sick of the numbers on the scale dictating how I feel.
Yes, I gained about four pounds. I know exactly why, and I know exactly how to get rid of it. So why do I spiral down into a pit of misery and try to self-medicate with the very stuff that makes me feel shitty in the first place? I AM FAT. I GOT SLIGHTLY MORE FAT. SO HEY, LET'S EAT LEFTOVER CUPCAKE FROSTING AND POTATO CHIPS UNTIL WE FEEL BETTER. But guess what...it never feels better. Because after I'm done, I look at the dessicated remains of whatever I've devoured, and I get mad at myself for being "weak." I put it in quotes because I'm not really sure that weakness is what makes it happen. I think it's just a habit: Feel bad? Eat. Feel lonely? Eat. Feel anything...EAT. That's the habit I need to break.
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