You choose not to do it.
I say I don’t know where to begin. But I do.
I choose not to begin.
But that would be fine. That would be acceptable. If only I wasn’t, at the exact same moment, choosing to make things much, much worse.
I am choosing a daze. I am choosing the posture of the ostrich. I am choosing anxiety. I am am choosing to make myself as juvenile and irresponsible as I can without being called upon it. I am choosing to throw out the anchor on all of my plans. I am choosing this. This is not happening to me. This is not a mental illness that has invaded me. This is not self-protection. This is me being a jerk and exerting control over the possibility that maybe I am really stressed and unhappy in my job and maybe I don’t know how to deal with the fact that I want to move on not only from that situation but from my whole housing, being single,
I keep pushing, assuming my body will give me a fair warning. It won’t though.
This isn’t even a size issue. This isn’t even a me being comfortable in my own skin issue. This is about me turning off my brain. This is about me being a type of person I always found shameful and embarrassing: willfully ignorant, snotty, obsessive, no longer allowing the higher functions of my cerebral cortex to function.
I am coasting. I am coasting towards sharpened pikes, a pit of snakes, a joyless state being tied to a bed, to white walls, to what might have been. To surgery. To things that I have a say in. And that the path in that direction is sleek and fast and smooth like a luge run so that I am shuttled far and fast away from the kind boy speaking to me only about nerdy things on the internet. I don’t want to have to sort that out. I don’t want to have to try, knowing how hard I could fail or how well I could do. I want to pretend that it will happen and it will be amazing. I want to pretend that I have control over all outcomes by remaining precisely at the center of all things. It’s all potential.
The future is full of endings I have to shoot in the head. I have to stop choosing everything.
I have to stop eating this crap, craving this crap, obsessing over the right to keep eating this crap. I have to get on the bike. Five minutes.
SparkPeople. Water. Scale. Carrots. Leftovers. Walking. Sleeping. 30 days. Anger released. I have some vacation days. I have to stop this mania. I have to give it up. Give it away.
I have to be more in smaller ways. I have to not eat salty pizzas, whole pizzas, and act like oh, well, that’s mostly normal.
I just don’t want to face the void that all this crap is filling up. I’m not so brave. I just know I have to try.
Thanks, Rowsdower, for the reminder.