I am not at the end of my eating binge yet so this is unusual for me to be honest and open about it where I'm usually in denial. And that's the trouble. I've gained at least 15 pounds since summer and sort of don't care. I mean, I want it all right now. I want to eat and be comfortable with myself, which means thin, but I certainly cannot have both. I am comfortable except where the now too tight favorite jeans and the self-induced indigestion is concerned. One could argue then that I am not comfortable because the jeans were worn pretty much everyday and the gut is under stress and overwork.

The problem of the weight gain is not the 10 extra pounds the Dr.'s scale revealed from May to January. It is the five (or more, good God) gained since then. I can put it on fast. Seen Spirited Away? I can relate to the character No Face. And I'm not unhappy. I mean, I'm not eating my feelings. I've just gotten myself in a rut I guess. Because although happy, this is not OK; it won't stop on it's own, and it won't be long before I'm reporting to you that I am 30 pounds heavier, etc.

It is a fine line, they say, a fine line between two seemingly different shades of grass. I have seen the line (it is unfenced and unpoliced) and I know that maintaining my distance from it is good for me. It doesn't take much--holiday treats everyone else eats--before I find myself on the other side. Abstinence, once again, is what I must commit myself to when I am ready, which might be after writing this, or with the next new Moon.

Food is, was, and will always be my drug. And I don't mean to label myself so to limit my ability to ever overcome the dysfunctional behavior or whatever you want to call it. I've dissected it completely and been quite open to experiencing its depths. I am aware of the tricks I've developed--my ego has developed--to fight every new tool I find and hone to stay where I naturally should, about a size 2. (Shut up, ladies. I still feel what you do. I also look like I'm pregnant right now; and thank goodness I hung on to the baggy sweatshirts.)

I am no good at accepting instant gratification at the expense of true gratitude. It's not something I'll ever be good at. I wind up suffering. I basically chase my tail around for a few months, become aware of what I'm doing, and eventually stop and shrink back down. The awareness part can be lengthy--the brain receptors want to make sure I'm sure that refraining from pleasuring them is a good idea. They're so thoughtful. That's their problem, the thought to eat overrides the good sense not to as well as the body's satiation and contentment. Fuck thinking. That's why God works wonders in this department.

Fat is fine if one is fine fat. I am not. My soul is, but my tummy really aches right now and my brain is totally cool with checking out what's in the fridge.

I began this by saying I didn't care. Well, I've learned to love myself and accept love any old way I might look, so I don't care like I once did; I don't want to kill myself over it. But I do care in a way that makes me sad for anyone who might be feeling like I do.