So, here we are at the close of Day 1 of this, my current stab at remodeling the external to better conceptualize the internal or something, and my stomach is sore with proper low carb foods and I’ve done well. I’ve done very well and I am energized and excited even after the sacrifices that come when you suddenly realize all the things you had access to and could have cooked and I could have eaten.
I read a quote today that Thomas Jefferson, in all his holy austerity, offered up to the world. He said “We rarely repent of having eaten too little.” I don’t know if this is so. Any time I genuinely start restrictions, I genuinely lament what might have been. Which is a curious thing to do when you realize how emotionally unsatisfying food actually is in comparison to the value we put on it to aide and mollify our emotional woes. Sure, I’ve been stirred up and and drifting and in anguish and food has done wonders in that instant to make it not appear so bad. Settling back with a full belly, you feel primally resolved. Like a gaps been filled. But over time, like any drug or any physical resource, its returns diminish. You need more to do less and I found myself yesterday with this garish amount of food around me at the table: bread and salad and bruschetta and a french dip sandwich with chips and coleslaw and I ate until I was absolutely busted. Not fifteen minutes later, regardless of the fact that I had just stuffed myself, the thought came into my head completely without malice that we should go to Starbucks for a frappuccino. The things were entirely unrelated, somehow. It was the going and the doing and extending the nice evening and maintaining the dreamlike disconnect between body and mind and more than anything else…it’s the habit of dessert. It’s the habit of satisfying my needs as the arise because I’m sublimating other ones. It’s like a deal struck and it’s how this long and grievous accord has been kept. When I start to restrict, things start to bubble up. My perception of self as constantly between certainties, between states. I feel sometimes like I’m constantly in wait for the time when things will really count, when I’ll really be judged, when there will really be risk, when there will really be damage and right now, the right now of going on three decades is a green room. I’m learning, I’m stretching, I’m letting my attention slip. But I will stand at the ready when trouble calls and I’ll tie my flag to the right ship when it docks (ahem).
I just have always felt like what I had to bring to the table was awkward, imperfect, unready for critique. That everything about myself would be torn apart if I acted like I had a right to feel or a right to try and actively better myself. I never felt like it was low self-esteem, just reality. Like a caste system. And I balanced that feeling of social inadequacy by creating this author/writer role where my liminality was my gift and fence-post sitting was essential. The inadequacy merged with the ability so that I felt like I was at home in myself even if that self was below par. Even if that self was never going to be able to physically connect with anyone. I think I use self and body interchangeably in a way that I think fails to express my meaning. I think there was beauty enough in both, but they seem to behave in sort of an earth and moon in orbit where the dark side is always facing away from where you look. I can never get the alignment quite right, I can never see the whole thing all at once.
I want to get things settled. But I want to get them settled right, you know?
Like there’s this guy talking to me via email. This guy that would be good to meet and seems to like me and we’re at this point where there should be meeting and dating and hey there and I feel this incredibly, disturbingly powerful demand to end contact. End contact! No need to answer an email if you’re going to have to dither around what you feel. That’s not light on your feet, emotionally vacant banter. That could hurt someone. That’s really ….and then from that point, my head just go white and wipes the screen for a bit. That’s a mental block. I know that I need to email tomorrow whatever I end up saying. I let things go so far out of fear and also out of distress over the upkeep.
I honestly don’t know what I’m missing out on. The dreams are big and beautiful. I am standing on a fence post. I could live forever like this. Maybe I will. And then again, maybe not.
I’ll explain why I’m not counting this as 30 days yet tomorrow, but for all that, I did well. 165.2