It seems that many of my friends are currently fighting their way through dark times. Tragedy, trauma and heartbreak are rampant and I am not exempt. We attended a wake last night and a funeral today. Some lives are lived so filled with joy that when the final page of their story is read, everyone rejoices, while others resound with a painful echo that induces only great sorrow. A handful of relatives gather in a room to say a final goodbye without a single flower or even an obituary. There, grief swallows every other emotion.
I noticed a curiosity in the funeral parlor, dishes overflowing with candy. If there was ever any doubt in my mind that sugar soothes the psyche, that notion was eradicated by a man with a large bag of spearmint lifesavers. It was all I could do to restrain my diabetic son from inhaling all of it. We celebrate birth and death with food, and everything in between.
While some people are born with a natural capacity for moderation, I was not. What I lack in that area is easily multiplied by my desire for sweets, thereby creating the monster of all food addictions. And since it only takes one bowl of ice cream to send me into relapse, I find myself clawing through the darkness once again. Sugar does something very bad to my brain that induces the deepest and darkest depression. Once in the throes of it, I find it difficult, if not impossible to escape because when I feel bad, I want more food to make me feel better which in turn makes me feel worse. I feel like I’m chained to the worst kind of treadmill and no matter how tired I am, I can’t get off.
“Margaret’s whining about food again.” You say. “Can’t she just get over it already?” It reminds me of my attitude toward alcohol and drugs addicts when I was younger. I didn’t understand how difficult it was to quit, not always because of the physical addiction, but even more so because of the emotional facet. Most smokers I know wish like crazy they could quit. They will have success for a period of time but usually revisit their old habit when life begins to stress them out. They derive a certain amount of comfort from the ritual, even more so than the nicotine. So I apologize if this entry sounds like whining. I only wanted to be honest about my struggle to maintain a healthy lifestyle while my body screams constantly for comfort in the form of food.
I looked in the mirror the other day and saw the old Margaret. She was helpless and lost. She didn’t know how to control her impulse to binge eat and wanted to give up. I saw the capacity for great harm in her eyes, like a big yellow warning beacon. I didn’t have a smart way to re-teach her to restrain the beast that has taken control of her life again, so I turned and walked away. Not a very fruitful decision, I might add.
So today I asked my friends for help. I asked them to pray for me and encourage me. Because more often than not, pretending everything is okay just makes it worse. So thank you, my friends. You know who you are. It’s good to know when I don’t have the electricity to shine, you bring the extension cord.
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