…and it's all my fault. Nothing new there. I do have this pattern, after all, of setting myself challenges–but never just yet. I mean, there's always a week or two before said challenge begins during which I treat my body like a motel room. Seeing as how on 2 January I will kick off a year of "clean" eating and drinking, I've been partyin' hearty in the meantime. Yesterday this took the form of drinking several cups of mulled wine while I decorated my folks' tree. Between the cheap wine (who mulls the good stuff?), the grain-based (gluten-containing) vodka, and all the sugar, I got pretty damn sick. First time I've done that in a really long time. Minus one point for me.

So physically I'm riding low; mentally, too. The bottom hasn't really dropped out, probably because I have something at my disposal now that I didn't even two months ago: hope. My little 5-week experiment with food suggested that with some commitment, I can lessen my depression, anxiety, and brain-fog significantly. It was truly mind-blowing and I am grateful for the knowledge and excited to implement it– and see how healthy I can get myself–during this upcoming year.

At the same time, I must confess: something about the idea of getting well and moving forward with my life scares the frikkin tar out of me. I am terrified of getting back into the workforce; terrified of getting back to my writing (this dissertation doesn't really count); just generally freaked out by the thought of putting myself back out there. I think about the way I've been these past few years and wonder how my friends–particularly my newer ones–will react to the healthier me. (A few weeks ago, during my raw food trial, I ran into some colleagues–they thought I was on amphetamines.) I worry that I will do the hard work of getting well only to find out that my best isn't good enough. I am afraid of living without many of the excuses I have been clinging to.

And of course, I am afraid that I won't have the discipline to keep with the program, that I'll slip into my old rut of self-sabotage. At the moment, I feel pretty darn motivated, though. Who wouldn't, with such empirical evidence in their pocket?

Today, in the absence of doing anything constructive, my brain keeps doing more and more erratic laps around the present moment. I feel so unsettled. That I haven't had the dosh to see my therapist in about 3 months hasn't helped. I need a good talk. Sigh.

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