Food.

A large part of life given that it’s needed to keep us alive but if I’m honest, it’s the bane of my existence and I wish someone would invent a way to live without having to make the choice over what we put in our mouths.

I’ve been doing a pre-surgery diet that involves nothing but 4 pints of milk a day, 2 pints of water and a chicken stock cube and all I’ve been hearing from people is how awful it must be and how I must be absolutely hating it. I’ve been getting sympathy from all comers and have perfected a sad little face at the thought of all the delicious food I’m missing out on.

Only I don’t feel like I’m missing out.

I wish it was something I could continue with for longer, for as long as it takes me to sort my life out when it comes to food in fact. Although after so many years of being like this it really does feel like there’s no end in sight. You can guarantee that whatever time of the day or night it is, whatever I’m doing or saying, wherever I am, I’m thinking/fretting/worrying/stressing about food.

I can accept that I have no willpower over the contents of the nearest supermarket, I get that, but it also feels deeper and stronger than just not being able to shut my head up. Food has not only affected me deeply but it has also affected my relationships with family, friends and the world around me. I have days where the thought of food and of using it to squash feelings that I can’t deal with consumes me so much that I feel like an addict clucking for a fix.

I know that sounds dramatic but it’s true. I’ve tried so hard to get a grip on things, to eat three meals a day and not rely on food to fix me, I do really well for a couple of days and then the wheel start to come off, the steam in my internal pressure cooker builds up too much and I have a blow out and a pig out.

Something, something has to give. I’m just hoping it’s not me.