Monday, February 03, 2014
Philip Seymour Hoffman's death has had me thinking about addiction, and how those of us who self-medicate with food are luckier than someone addicted to heroin. We injure our health slowly over a long period of time, but at least it's not going to kill us on the spot.
This weekend, about the same time Hoffman was embarking on his last drug binge, something went wrong inside me. I came home from work Friday evening with good intentions, but as the evening wore on I went over my range and then just kept going. This is not that unusual for me on a Friday night - I have an ongoing problem with wanting to unwind with food at the end of my workweek. (When I was younger I went out drinking and dancing on Fridays - at least I got exercise!) I try to plan and track special meals/treats, but it doesn't always work.
Then on Saturday I get up and get back on track. Always. Only this time I didn't. Sometime around midmorning I became aware that I was not willing to track my food any more that day, and it felt like the impulse was coming from a place too deep inside me to fight. I overate all day and into the night. I overate after I was full and it didn't feel good anymore and I wanted to stop. I just kept eating, like a robot. I finally fell asleep and woke in the middle of the night sweaty with indigestion and unable to get back to sleep. I had literally eaten myself sick.
Sunday I had lots of water, ate only vegetables and light protein, and am pretty much back to normal now. But it was startling to realize how much of an addict I still am.
Here I am walking around all limber from the gym (which I actually went to on Saturday!), looking better than I have in years, sporting my size 12s and inching into 10s/mediums, generally a pretty successful Sparker. And yet.
Was there something in the stars that day? I went to a dark place, but at least I was able to come back.