The Problem With Writing A Daily Blog


Is that sometimes your day is ass and you’re ashamed to admit the reason why it was ass was your fault and the shame becomes a big pile of shit you want to crawl under hide in and tuck away from the world with.

Put me in a shame cocoon and shut the door.

I am busy eating ice cream.


I fucked it up folks.

Three and a half years of no sugar and I screwed the pooch.

I knew it was coming, I saw it there, just there on the horizon, a white flag of surrender, an ominous note of hate for myself that I was going to indulge in, could not stop the indulging and will probably finish off the pint when I finish writing this.

Cue tears.

And also a spiritual growth story for me.

I joke, sort of, with a friend of mine today that this could very well be the best thing that has ever happened to me.  Painful experiences have often led me down walks of life I could not have fathomed reaching were it not for the necessary.

Stop, insert gun shot.

Fuck my mother no wonder I am eating the ice cream.

I need out of here.

I am not saying San Francisco is a safety zone, it’s not.

Or that Paris was either, it was scary and I got into a more than my fair share of bad neighborhoods, but it is not working for me here.

It is not.

That is the other thing that I can see, a lot of stuff is not working for me, which is why the eating behavior gets to be something that I can accept and be aware of and let go of.

I want so bad to control anything in my life and when I fail at it, it explodes.

Cocaine binges.

Beer binges.

Sex binges.

Ice cream binges.

It’s all the same shit.

Emotional valve release.

Except that I cannot take any of them for too long.

Especially the first two, I haven’t hit my bottom on the sex thing yet, being a bottom, um, er, scratch that, seeing as how I haven’t been in a sexual relationship for a while.

“At least I have no desire to smoke,” I told my friend this morning while I was talking to her on the phone.  I had admitted to eating the cookies in the cookie jar.

House sitting god damn it.

I am not allowed to do this anymore.

Let me raid your cupboards.

“What kind of snacks do you like?” My boss asked me yesterday.

This was before the dive into the deep end of my eating disorder.  And I do have a disorder, I have been diagnosed, I have had professional help, and there is a reason I drink a lot of hot tea.

“Drink a cup of very hot tea when you “think” you are hungry,” it will give your body a chance to calm down and you can see if you really are hungry or if you are just having an anxiety attack or an intense feeling,” my doctor told me while discussing my dietary needs.

I have gotten help before, I know where to go, and I have spent a lot of time this past week looking into my solutions.

Most of which, all of which, boil down to a spiritual solution that I will not discuss here except in very generalized details.

This being a public document and I am a private person.

You want to know more you know who you are and you know how to contact me.

Even if I am in isolation mode.

I did get out today, I did go make myself known to my fellows, I did share about acting out and I did cry.

Then I went to Bake Sale Betty’s.

I mean, fuck it, right?

If I am going to compulsively over eat I might as well eat some god damn fried chicken.

Except that it did not taste as good as I thought it would.


It was ok.

The donut from Donut Dolly dusted with crystal sugar and filled with “Naughty” cream wasn’t even naughty.

The slice of pizza from Arizemendi was probably the best thing I ate and truth be told it did not make me happy and did not fill the hole.

Gourmet chocolate chip cookies?


Chocolate covered macaroons?


Organic Strauss mint chocolate chip ice cream?


I feel sick.

Who wouldn’t.

I am sick.

And I do know what I need to do to get better, I have gotten better before.

I see what they mean when they say the road narrows.

It really does.

My head has loud conversations about all the things I am missing and all the tastes that I could have, but when I gave myself the taste they all tasted like garbage.

I felt like the Princess Bride, “you turned your back on true love to be the Queen of Garbage, bow down to the princess of muck, bend before the Queen of filth,” the hag calls to her in her nightmares when she agrees to marry Prince Humperdink.

My prince is an expensive pint of ice cream that kissed me with cold lips and promised false comfort and I fell for it.

The great thing about writing a daily blog?

I see myself in all my fabulous human glory and I see that if this is the bottom, for surely it  is, there is only up from here.

“This could be the best thing that ever happened to you,” she said to me.

Fuck off, I said to her, in my head.

“Ok,” I nodded, pain flaring out from me in sharp tipped in ice.

I believe you.

I have to.

Anything is better than this.

“You’re going to be ok,” my friend said.

I believe her.

I know I am going to be ok.

Before when I was lost, I did not know there was a solution.

I found it, it worked and somewhere a long the way I let it go.

I wandered off the path and said, “hey, I got this, thanks for you help.”

I see it there again and I am setting my feet to it.

I won’t let myself live like this.

I deserve better than the way I treat myself.

Now, excuse me, I still have a little break down to have.

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