The view from the floor of my bathroom is humbling.
It’s from this sort of angle that life takes on a new perspective, as you lay there, writhing in pain that is 100% entirely your own damned fault. When your face is pressed against the cool faux tile of the floor, sweat and tears pooling just a bit around it, and the only things you want are either to vomit or just die already, one of three things will happen: you will puke, you will die, or you will wake the fuck up.
Addiction of any kind is an insidious bitch. Even though you know, deep down inside, that you have a real problem, there are always excuses and lies and ways around actually admitting it to yourself. My personal addiction is a common one, and it carries with it, due to my rather extreme GERD issues, a very high physical price. Food is my drug, and because of that, it is very easy to convince myself and others that I have it under control. So I eat things which I know damn good and well I shouldn’t, and occasionally, I escape unscathed, which only emboldens me for the next cheat. Sometimes, I honestly can’t trace an attack back to a particular indulgence, but mostly, I know full well what I’ve done even as I do it.
Daily medication or no, I have to monitor my intake very carefully, or I will get sick, and when I do, the pain is something I wouldn’t wish on anyone. My stomach forces me to double over, and my back pulls me straight, making the tug-of-war between those opposing forces a very real torture. Add in the sensation that my ribcage cannot contain the enormous explosion of acid within it attempting to erupt outwards like Vesuvius, and you have a pretty fucked up night ahead of you.
Yesterday, it was IHOP’s delicious, free-for-Veterans-Day, baking-soda rich Red-White, and Blue pancakes. Yes, I’d been craving hotcakes for weeks, but I know what’s going to happen. The addicted mind, however, is very good at ignoring consequences, convincing the conscious mind that it won’t happen. “You took you meds this morning. You’ll be fine; just keep a bright thought, and everything’ll be great.”
They weren’t even that good, honestly. Tasty, yes, but very heavy, and I knew three bites in that I wouldn’t finish the plate. Of course, finish them I did. Slowly and savoringly. I even drizzled each bite of the last one with a different syrup, as IHOP has four signature syrups at each table.
And I spent 3+ hours last night on the floor of my bathroom, alternating between examining the dust bunnies behind the commode and whimpering tearfully.
And I woke the fuck up.
Excuses and “reasons” are countless and endless, and I’m not going to elaborate on them here, but I am taking control starting now. My diet will be extremely boring, but it’ll be predictable and nutritious. I’ll have the same breakfast, lunch, and dinner, with minor variations, every day. Snacks will likewise be simple and neutral. Sweets will be limited to things like natural peppermints and ginger. Fruits will be non-acidic (bananas, pears, stone fruits, and an occasional apple). There will likely be a large pecan pie brought into work the day after Thanksgiving (it’s already in the freezer, and I’m not having it; Jacquelynn will take what she wants and I’ll get rid of the remainder).
To make myself sick is an incomprehensible choice, but it’s a choice I’ve made pretty regularly for quite a while. Those days are over. I owe it to myself and to my Jacquelynn who needs me healthy and here.
Self destruction ends here.