Sometimes I think my tastebuds have failed me. That in the midst of the everyday I have failed to savor. That the rush and appetites of my life have more to do with frantic filling than with letting the aroma of the good things settle on my tongue and linger.
I bulge at the seams of this overstuffed pace. The frantic tyranny of what must be done. I have never found balance. I have lived a lopsided existence tilting full scale into whatever I’m passionate about at the moment, or halting the screeching pace and trailing off into depression. And when I was diagnosed with bipolar a few years ago, it all made so much more sense. This imbalance of moods. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe balance in some sense is a myth, and it’s just more obvious in my case.
I think of slowing and savoring. I think of my past, the times I’ve been out of control, the parking lots with fast food bags and binges and shame in the greasy fingered stains on my soul, empty containers of ice cream dripping down the sides of the carton onto my night table and the ache that never fills. I think of secrecy and shame every time I think of the glorious pleasure of food. Because you see, I am a fat woman.
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