I eat when I’m not hungry.
I eat when I’m bored, tired, excited, nervous, sad, happy, giddy, infuriated… you name the feeling and I’m eating whilst that feeling is being felt.
I remember sleeping over at my cousin’s house when we were like 10. Kenya is only 6 months older than me so we pretty much were BFF’s. I was in the bathroom peeing and Kenya was in the kitchen toasting bread for breakfast that would soon be lathered with Nutella (we were way ahead of the Nutella craze). As I sat on the pot getting excited about how my teeth would soon sink into crunchy toast with smooth, warm Nutella (that would get stuck to the roof of my mouth because I’d accidentally put too much on), I heard Kenya’s voice travel down the hallway: “How many pieces do you want?”
“Two,” I shouted, thinking that I shouldn’t have the three pieces I really wanted. But at the same time that I spat out my response, Kenya completed her question by adding, “One or two?”
I immediately felt like an idiot. Like I had been caught. Like Kenya, who was into ballet and boys, would know why I wasn’t: because I loved eating food and lots of it.
Did you catch that I was around 10 when this happened? Isn’t that kind of an odd thing to remember? How many fucking pieces of toast with Nutella you wanted when you were 10?
I’m that person that generally remembers very little from back then… partly because there isn’t a lot to remember (boring) and partly because I blocked a lot out (parental split), or partly, perhaps, because of the daily usage of marijuana in the first couple years of my 20s.
Regardless, I don’t remember shit, yet I remember this one time, 30+ ago, when I wanted at least two pieces of toast to my skinny BFF’s one.
Sick. I’m sick. There’s got to be some kind of switch or something in my brain that’s not flipped in the right direction.
Right now, my stomach hurts from today’s food consumption of McDonald’s Egg White Delight (no bacon) Meal (with hashbrown) and large coffee (five cream); an amount of mini Reece’s peanut butter cups that I lost track of after like five; half a blueberry muffin; potato chips; a Smart Ones pasta meal; more chips. It’s 3PM. I still need to eat dinner, too. And it’s Taye’s late night so that means Lovie and I are on our own so that means I’ll probably eat shit.
Not literally of course. (Well to some I’m sure it is literal shit but … you know what I mean!)
I’m not sure what my point is to this, really. I’m fat. I own my fatness. I’m “okay” with being fat, but I’m not. I think it’s the food and my obsession with it that really bothers me. I feel like I can’t NOT think of food. Yes, I need it to survive and all that jazz, but it’s truly an obsession for me.
Maybe I should start smoking again.