billmaxwell: Popsicles (Default)
It occurs to me that I don't know how to do what is referred to on LJ as "cut text" here, so this may be a longish post that should have been behind some sort of cut, if that is possible here. Or not. Hell if I know.

I am at a low point in my emotional life. It may be in my real life as well, as I am in an unfulfilling job, struggling financially, and am unhappy in my marriage. I am doing quite a bit of uncontrolled emotional eating, and as a result, I'm putting on weight...something which, historically, has a really, really negative effect on my self-image.

And I find myself having a hard time caring. I am not what I look like, right? In fact, focusing on the external me is kind of superficial and shallow, isn't it? I kind of think it is.

And yet I can't stop thinking about how I am heavier than ever before in my life, except right after having a baby (and I don't know how close I am to that, because I'm a little afraid to get on a scale). I feel old, and heavy, and slow, and thick, and coarse.

And I don't care a whole lot. Food feels like a drug. While I'm eating, I feel calmer. I don't have this crazy-eyed, pacing sensation. I can stop thinking about how much I hate my life. It always comes back, unfortunately. This is becoming a bit circular.

I think I am on a slippery slope to something very, very bad.

Writing about myself feels very awkward, and strange. Talking about my feelings feels uncomfortable, and strange.

I want to ask someone for help. I don't know what to say.

Unrelated poetry thing:

Don't give me ultimatums.
I am not ever always, or never.
Except when I am.


billmaxwell: Popsicles (Default)

July 2009

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