The Whispering Begins

I don't know whether this is an Everyfatfuck thing, or whether it's a specific Me thing, but there's a thing that starts to happen to me after just a little Disappearing.

I've mentioned that when I Disappear, I erect invisible Perspex walls between myself and all the things which, when I'm not Disappearing, I enjoy eating, but are bad for me. To be fair, things I enjoy eating and things that are bad for me are pretty much synonymous, so the Perspex walls are faiiirly comprehensive. You look around and thunk! You break your nose on a Perspex wall between yourself and chocolate, or you and pizza, or you and every cake in the world.

But what starts to happen is that while you're going about your day, if you happen to be in a place where temptation exists, the damn things start whispering to you. Whispering to get you to buy them, eat them, cram them into your face before anyone else knows, have a secret liaison with them that can become almost a culinary affair - only you nad them knowing that whatever you tell the world, you're cheating. You're doing what the things want you to do, to ensure your own failure, your own growing waistline. To ensure you don't achieve your goals.

Writing that down, as I'm sure I must have done before, is a good slap in the face. It makes me realise quite how fucked in the head I actually am. Quite how self-destructive. Quite how much at war, the element of me that believes I should be fat, and incapable of discipline, and self-destructive always tempting me to let it win. The action of Disappearing is a declaration of war on that part of myself.

Today being January 1st, we actually stayed in bed till after midday, and mulled gloriously around for a few hours. By the time 6.30 in the evening rolled around, I hadn't done a damn thing in terms of exercise all day, and had had one of the less wise but glorious breakfasts from d - home made waffles and incinerated American bacon (my favourite way). Today was probably the biggest incident so far of me having to force my ass out of the door, probably down to the late start in the day. Yesterday, I nearly made it to my 10,000 steps, deciding to walk from Merthyr down to Pentrebach to meet d and my mother for our New Year's Eve dinner. Today, I only managed half of that distance - some 4500 steps. That took my up to my roundabout from the first few days, and I stopped off at the gas station again on the way back - mostly, this time, to warm the hell up, as I seem to have wandered into Jotunheim, land of the Ice Giants, and have frozen at least one of my nipples off. If you find one, it's mine.

While I was there though, the whispering began. My eye fell on some of the most godawful looking, plastic-imprisoned muffins it's ever been my misfortune to see. And I wanted to slam them into my face, plastic and all. Chocolate bars stood up, early Disney style and turned into curvy dancers, waggling themselves at me. Chicken and mushroom slices unpeeled their pastry and beckoned me closer.

Every damn thing in the gas station begged me to eat it. And I could have. I wanted to.
Which is the point at which you have to either start singing (ideally, though not always, in your head), or get the hell out of Dodge and escape the shorus of whispering temptations.

I got out.

As it happens, d had been making pizza when I got home. All of which was glorious, and all of which I wanted to smash into my face. I ate three small pieces, and kept the rest for tomorrow.

Whispering madness averted. Today.

One day at a time and all that...