A Brief Tale of Self-Loathing

Look at you, with your fat belly overhanging, with your muffin top testament to your pathetic ill-discipline. Your face, without angle or line, a wasteful ball of dough with thumb-hole eyes, forlorn at what they see in the mirror, and resignedly accepting you’re the architect of this. This. This! I point now at your stomach, face, dismissively, eyes flashing about with disgust. And in yourself, maybe you don’t care so much. You’ve sauntered in and out of this state with equal vigour from late teens. But your partner does care. Not in a nice way. Not in a supportive, hey let’s get you moving, make you a bit healthier, sorta way. No. Feelings of disgust are transmitted and received. A palpable lack of desire, of affection, non-malicious comments about belly size and its effect on intimacy, one piece of the jigsaw. Where do the feelings emanate from? Me to me, her to me, or her to her to some degree?

I think the lack of malice is the worst bit. If there’s nothing gained by saying it, no spite, it must be true, right? I’ve lost it all before; I can not eat refined sugar for months on end; I can cut a stone in two weeks easily and keep it off with discipline. That will make a difference, though I’m maybe 4 stone away from a weight at which I’d respect myself more. It is less the physicality and more what I know I’ve done to get it; I’m ashamed of myself.

Imagine I cut, again. What will be the gain, where can I find permanence in it so as to not be here again in six months’ time, this pit of self-loathing and confusion? Wanting but never feeling I have what I want, and, as is the case in all places with an abundance of food, attempting to satiate wants by ploughing egregious amounts into my literal cakehole.

Over recent months, I’ve become peculiarly envious of countries such as Mexico and Colombia, which (so I read) have just enough food for everyone. Here in the UK, terrible foods are the cheapest. Introduce a sugar tax! That’s for another day, today is about taking responsibility for my part in this malaise. For without my being a player, there can’t be a game.

So runs the conversation in my head, as the battle between logical and emotional parts of my brain rages on. The bloodshed is severe but you have to look deep into a person’s eyes to see it. It is an ongoing dialogue that’s beginning to cut to the core of who I am and what I’m about. I mean, we are what we do, right? How could we ever be otherwise?

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The Unwanted Transfer of Clutter

Recently, I had friends around, who saw my pile of things to donate/toss, amongst them, several books, a loo block, shoelaces and a blue plastic box. 
My friends pored through the items as if offered some sort of golden ticket. Could they have this; could they have that? Yes, of course! If I can pass anything on that’ll be of value, definitely. Even if I actually wanted it, if it was of more value to someone else, I’d seriously consider parting with it. 
But why did they want it? The plastic box: I know where my friend will keep it. I’m sure it’ll remain unused; a great just in case item; my friend has an extensive Tupperware collection. I know of its unhappy, unused existence, because I stopped using it around four months ago and only just discarded it. Should I have said no? That seems a little judgmental and controlling. Superimposing my values onto my friends is probably a great way to irritate them too. 
The shoelaces attracted my other friend, who’s to put them in his Adidas Superstars, a pair of clean, white laces to replace the clean, white laces. Those replaced would go into another pair, from there another pair, until the twin fogs of disinterest and disbelief had fully descended. 
So, the items went, yet I feel frustration at adding to clutter problems elsewhere, and in so doing, firstly, preventing a charity from making a little money, and secondly, making it from people who may have gotten more value from my discards – the opportunity cost of saying yes was the sacrifice of two meaningful ends. 
What do you do with your discarded items, if people want them, and you feel they will get no value from them?

The Detail of the Declutter

Last year, I went through my Agatha Christies, unsure why I loved half and cared nothing for the others. It wasn’t to do with the plots, it wasn’t whether I’d been immersed in a televisual adaptation. Finally, I realised, trivial as it may seem, it was the font. The ones I loved had a particular look and feel that the others didn’t. 

I accepted this, quite proud of how I’d drilled down to the detail, and the decluttering and donating continued, my Christie books half in number. 
What are some of the stranger factors that have helped you to keep or discard?