Dear (friend):
You’re just going to tell me that I do this to myself, and that I need to get out of it.
And you’re right. (because you always are.)
But it’s like chocolate cake. It’s absolutely sinfully delicious and it’s right there in front of me every. single. day., tormenting me with the knowledge of what it’s like and how good it is, even though it’s so very bad for me and makes me utterly miserable when I’m not, uh, regularly partaking.
I need to find a chocolate cake-free place, where I can go through my drug withdrawals and finally realize that oh hey, there are other delicious desserts out there, some of which might be better for me and make me happy in the long run. Like tiramisu. Or devils food cake. Maybe even chocolate peanut butter ice cream. (oh! java chip!)
But right now, the chocolate cake is controlling my life, and it is literally impossible for me to exercise my free will (aside from occasional bouts of lucidity at two am) as long as I see it every goddamn fucking day. Because just when I’ve built up enough willpower to resist, it comes to me and tempts and teases and acts like it wants me and I’m lost again.
Even now, it’s only been two weeks since my last …binge, and instead of getting all powerful and pro-vegetable, all I want to do is find some red velvet cake to flaunt and see how I’m fine and happy with other desserts? (But it’s only cause I want the attention, not because I’ve made any progress.)
Because the chocolate cake has decided itself that I need to “eat healthy” and it’s driving me up the wall because it’s just another fucking control technique and as soon as it decides that I’ve been ‘good’ long enough, it will come seduce the hell outta me. And I can tell you right now, the overload will be delirious and blissful and it just makes me even more addicted with every cycle. (This is round…6 or 7, I’ve lost track, and it’s so bad that I dream of cake during off periods.)
Something is very wrong with me.
(Okay, I also need to make sure I eat before going to bed.)
Just me, venting, and wanting to cry a little out of pure frustration and helplessness. I can’t change it. When it’s good I don’t WANT to because it is so. fucking. good., and when it’s bad, I hold on out of hope that the good times will come back. (And they always do.)
Because the cake needs me, too. It needs to know that someone wants it, even though it knows it’s horrible for human beings and there are people who actually hate it. It needs me because it knows I am a wonderful person so if I want it then it’s not completely worthless and evil. Plus it does care for me in it’s own demented cakeish way.
Ugh. Fml. This is exactly how I lost sixty-five pounds.
Sent from my iPhone.
At two-forty-five am.
Because sleep is a thing of the past.
And I want to go kill something.
And I need a fucking chocolate fix.
I’m going to make this a blog post or something so more people can enjoy my angst and self-perpetuating cycle of doom and codependence.
At least there is Derek Morgan to believe in.
Even if he’s a fictional character.
