So, I know it’s crazy, but I want to try not eating for a little while, not only to see if I can actually maintain the control, but most of all because I need to get rid of this small child worth of weight that I’ve seemed to acquired in the last two or three years. The child’s name is Blubber, and it’s a whiny, lazy little wench.

You know, I’m not this negative in my real life. Well, I’m negative yes, just not this much so. I can keep from voicing these dark thoughts when in the company of others. Sure, they know I’m crazy, they just don’t know how much so. Or they think something totally different than what’s reality. But as long as we’re being honest about what’s really on the inside, I have to say that the self-loathing that seems to come with eating for me is starting to escalate. Yes, I have an eating disorder. I know this. The first time I ever purged, I was nine years old. I went for a week and a half in high school putting nothing in my mouth but water, milk, and juice. Anorexic tendencies are not really my thing though; I like food. I like it far too much. Lately, instead of going out and doing social things, I find myself pulled toward spending my evening off alone with my computer or TV, eating a large pizza, six Three Musketeers Truffle bars, drinking a bottle of wine, or downing a whole bag of chips with dip. Sometimes—most of the time—it’s a few of these things all in one night.

There is no secret as to why I’m fat. I lack self-control. I suppose my T would say that I was looking for comfort, that my food addiction has to do with self-soothing. It isn’t that I don’t believe her. I mean, she’s really dead-on. I just don’t know how to stop it. A part of me doesn’t want to—I find this form of self-soothing actually works.

I feel like a Giant Asshole again. Long story, but I’ve been waiting over a month for a certain credit to my checking account from a company. I’ve been patient and kind to the customer service chick I’ve been in email correspondence with but this morning I broke. I sent the bitchiest email all about how I shouldn’t be making the monster effort to make this right; I’m the customer after all. Whatever…it’s true, but I didn’t have to be such a bitch. Now I’m afraid to read her reply. I need to grow a pair is what needs to happen.

I’ll bet my T would say that the feeling of being a Giant Asshole and my renewed desire to obsessively control what I eat are related. I guess if I knew for sure, I would know how to be less dysfunctional.

(P.S. Guys…calm down, I'm not going to stop eating. Trust me, I love food way too much.)