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?