Stuffing my face.

I’ve been eating my feelings the past two days, which might not be all that notable except that I’ve diligently been chipping away at my weight during lock down and this now feels extremely reckless.

My heart is breaking on all sides – no different than you, probably.  I ache for black Americans for all the suffering they endure and have endured.  I ache for essential workers who must chose to risk their lives to keep food on the table.  I ache for the loss of life as we all knew it and I ache for the unknown future.  I ache for my little one who is back at my ex’s.  I ache for my loneliness – I miss my mommy and my friends and dates (even the bad ones).

I just ache.

And after Pey went to my ex’s yesterday and we hugged and cried goodbye I threw myself into work.  I stared so hard at the computer screen my eyes watered and my back ached.  The fat ass cat tore into my lap whenever it suited him to get some attention. It felt like a reminder that I was not actually as alone as I felt.

When my day was over I grabbed a bite to eat – a chicken salad wrap – and took the dog off down the street, careful to suck in my stomach because that’s what middle aged women do, I guess.

My visit was leisurely, there was a hose and some water for all of us, a lolling tongue and squinty dog eyes, hugs and kisses.  I walked back home and immediately opened a bottle of wine and made pasta.  Ate too much, I’m sure, but didn’t care. Then drank some more wine and ate 4 truffles.  I went to bed early instead of eating more because that was all I really wanted to do (eat).

Today, I woke up with Pey’s balled up shirt in my arms.  It’s not weird, you’re weird.  It was so quiet, peaceful.  I wasn’t worried about what my child was doing or should be doing.  I immediately felt guilty for the relief I felt.

Work started earlier than usual and I bore down on my day like hungry little bug on a juicy leaf.  And boy was I hungry.  I ate most of a frozen dinner and then the left over pasta.  When work was finished I laced up my shoes again and headed back out.

This time I was met with an admission that there were tears the night before.  I was missed.  “This is hard.”  Yes, baby, I know.

We fabricated rainbows with the mister nozzle setting and turned our faces into it.  It was good to see each other.  Do you want me to come again tomorrow? 

“Yeah.”

I walked home listening to my audio book (my second ever) and felt guilty for being so removed from all the pain and suffering in the world, for my ignorance of whatever was happening less than 10 miles away.  But I’m fucking tired.

I feel like I have been weeping for humanity since 9/11 when I watched in horror as the first tower collapsed.  I had just barely turned 26.

I headed straight for my last bottle of wine and ordered some Chinese food.  It’d be my third meal of the day – I don’t even remember the last time I ate three times in a single day.  I savored the MSG on the sweet and tangy shrimp and chicken and the mouthfeel of the salty fried rice and wanted to melt into my rug for the sheer shame and pleasure of it all.  This was what I wanted.

I have a brutally long day tomorrow, so my plan is to indulge to the fullest tonight then be in bed by 10 and sleep it all off tomorrow.  No more booze then, no more eating my feelings.  I’m going to sit alone on my couch after my visit with Pey and I am going to cry.  I am going to cry for everything and everyone and everywhere.

But tonight, I eat and I drink.


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A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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