After eating clean for so many weeks with not even a hint of wheat, processed sugar, legumes or dairy, I have completely gone off the taste of cake. ME! Not liking cake? Something I never imagined would happen. So WHY, on that birthday, did I eat three slices of cake?! My head kept telling me “you won’t get a chance to eat cake again for a long time, so you may as well make the most of it today” even though it tasted like crap. It tasted like a bag full of caster sugar had farted in to my mouth.
My head is my enemy. It’s the same head that won’t let me sleep until it gets light outside because it knows it should be sleeping when it’s dark. The same obnoxious brain that wants to be spontaneous and live life carefree but also wants to plan it out to the finest of details beforehand. You know, just to be prepared.
Self sabotage. Why the fuck do we do that to ourselves.
The cake was not worth it. It wasn’t worth it because my diet has a purpose, to stop me from feeling lethargic, to help my ovaries work again, to nurse my lungs back to health.
Food is my safety behaviour. My comfort when all is uncertain. It makes me feel good while I’m eating it and guilty when I’ve stopped. It’s my new self harm. And just like my old razorblade, the excuses I once used to get out of social situations and the comfort zone I used to very much live inside of – it HAS to go.
My relationship with food is changing.
I’m sorry food but we can’t be lovers anymore, let’s just be friends.