I am a food addict.
There, I said it.
I am very hesitant to get into this. Because talking about this ad nauseum is what made me quit my first venture into blogging. At what point do you go from a person losing weight to... a person just living their life? I was falling in love. I didn't want to talk about my weight anymore. I wanted to talk about that!
But unlike my old one, this blog is about me and my little family. So I can ramble about how much I love my future husband. Or about whatever I want!
I think it's important for me to at least mention this subject once, and get this out. Catharsis, good. Repression, bad.
I used to be very overweight. Fine, morbidly obese. Whatever you want to call it.
I weighed... 273 pounds.
What was that?!
Yeah, 273 pounds. 19.5 stone. 124 kilograms. (Metric system, why you no come to America? I had to Google those numbers.)
Anyway, long story short: I was fat.
I lost friends when I lost weight. As in... almost all of them.
But I gained a life partner.
It's a give and take. I was sad about the friends, but realized... eh, they weren't that fantastic anyway.
I am now only moderately overweight. If I were to lose about 30 pounds I would be my super-ideal weight. However, I am much too of an addict to achieve that level of not-giving-a-fuckery about food.
I'm sorry. I love cheese.
I would also probably have to work out. Which... I need more comfortable shoes for that. Maybe I'll put that on my Christmas wishlist.
Okay, back to my original tangent.
I have an addiction. To food. And in trying to overcome that... you sometimes find yourself with a transference of addiction. And very recently I have encountered an almost slip into something scary.
Let me just say: I went through a dark period last month. No particular reason. My kids were fine. My fiancé? Same great guy I fell in love with. It was me and only me.
I turned to other means of "feeling."
It started out with a late night back pain. I took some leftover hydrocodone. I have tooth issues. Cool. Feels nice. Very good sleep that evening. The next day, still a little bit of pain. Took another. Head to work. Had a great day, no one could touch me. (Not literally, I was just feeling fine.)
Well, I had about 10 pills left in previously mentioned bottle that I blazed through in a matter of days. No particular reason, just liked the feeling.
Then I found a bottle of liquid hydrocodone. Even better! Swig before walking into work? Eh, I'll be here 8 hours. Might as well, to deal with the fuckery that happens up at this place. Mind you, I'm working with a full bottle.
I down that thing in 4 days.
Aaaand... we've got a problem.
And I'm faced with a decision to make. This bottle has two more refills. What's a girl to do?
Maybe I should have mentioned that addiction runs in the family? I had an older brother who died of an accidental overdose.
What was his drug of choice?
Well, hydrocodone, obviously!
After many long talks with myself, and an ounce (seriously, could NOT have been more than one) of willpower... I finally threw the bottle away so I couldn't refill it even if I wanted.
It's so scary to me. To have this propensity to addiction (of any kind) that I have. To need to be so vigilant all of the time. I can't be some sad story my mom tells about how she lost both of her children to this disease. But I was so close to slipping.
I have no idea why I even wrote this blog entry.