Please. Stop and read this entire post from primrose at taking a new path right now. Get another cup of coffee and a scone or chocolate chip cookie or some other almost acceptable drug and read the whole thing. But here’s the lure:
“food is now in a bottle marked ‘use with caution’. I spent so long fighting that one that anything more than a couple of biscuits seems impossible to take. I had a really tough meeting yesterday afternoon and promised myself a food treat afterwards. went to local cafe: all slices of cake looked too enormous. went to Waitrose bakery counter and the almond croissants seemed nearly as big as my head. eventually ended up with a single wrapped flapjack, approximately 1.5 inches by 2 inches. because that was all I wanted. I suppose I should be grateful for that hard-won moderation but sometimes I wish that the old binging still worked for me, in the same way I think sometimes that I wish I thought booze would still hit the button. to have the sweet illusion at least that it will cure my ills. too late. that train has left.”
worrying has always been a favourite hobby of mine. I watch my children for it like a hawk, trying to spot introspection and tummy aches for no reason. luckily they are on the whole remarkably resilient little creatures.
the antidotes to worrying often carry greater risks than the worry itself. as a teenager I used food as an antidote, mainlining chocolate Hobnobs (ack ack ack). then alcohol proved a far more powerful hammer, able to knock down any fragile wall inside me against it without a thought, until the antidote became the poison I was fighting.
and now in my twelfth month of sobriety the worry snake is winding back around me. tightening its coils, making sure of its grip.
I worry that this sobriety, so hard fought for, can slip through my fingers in a trice. in the last week or so there have been more frequent than usual…
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