Monkies and Memories

Almost two years ago (before I had discovered the joys and freedoms of blogging), I attempted to control my poor eating and unnatural cravings by keeping an all too dramatic diary of how I was feeling towards food:

October 1, 2011

food monkeyThis monkey is making me write. I am watching the Virginia Tech football game alone in my dorm room with fluorescent lighting that hurts my eyes as this monkey hangs on my neck, yanking more forcibly with each mental block I put in its path. I want to eat, I’m not hungry, yet my saliva flows, a lake in my mouth depleted of cheesy baked goldfish. I just want to eat, this addiction, this darn primate, wants me to eat.

Who cares about the tomorrow, my monkey reminds me only of the now, tugging roughly into the present I look longingly at the door, at the mirror on the door, at my own pathetic face in the mirror on the door.

Why have I not gone to the convenience store yet? It is right below my building, I have my own special bag to put all of my chips in so no one sees what I’m leaving with, except the cashier. I wonder how long the girl who hoards food is on their minds for. Doritos are what I crave. They are the easiest to snack on. One is never enough, the flavor never disappoints or grows old, they make me happy and that blissful ignorance while I’m in the midst of eating is the best reward of all.

During the day I eat fruit, go to the gym, and feign importance and accomplishment. At night I sit and long for company, even if it’s only the company of double chocolate brownie cookies; the sweetest of friends. To lick my fingers of delicious remnants would be heaven, to taste the savory flavors I have long been denied would be nirvana. In the time it would take for me to polish off a bag of chips, a carton of ice-cream, a dozen sandwiches, I would be happier then knowing I could fill my life with daily exercise.

monkey with foodBut for the past ten minutes I have not given into temptation, my monkey is tired. He will bide his time, strike when I am just as weak, and most likely win. I’ll accept it, if I don’t he will seek his wrath on me, make me doubt, make me worry; make me hungry, not a craving starvation, but something worse, a legitimate need to eat. If my monkey controls my physiological need to eat I know not what I will have left to control.

My monkey has too much power, and I must lose him before I get lost in him. I never liked monkeys, I need to act. Writing his destruction as he cowers in the corner gives me power. Maybe I’ll get a nice squirrel to remind me of my poor body-image. Maybe a kitten who purrs when I am doubtful of my intellect. I welcome those pets, because they will be animals of my own choosing. If I had known what I was beginning back in the second grade, when I preferred the company of television and Chex Mix to that of children my own age, I would have perhaps delayed my first job. Being a zookeeper was never my first career choice, until I had a monkey forced upon me.

I think for tonight I am done with my craving. What monkey? A bold statement as I already feel its hands inching their way up my back. I stand by it. What monkey? I am over such dramatic illusions and metaphors; I am not a writer. Maybe I will read this next time and it will help fend off another withdrawal craving, maybe not. I may add more to this, maybe not. I just don’t want to be consumed by this, but as the monkey reminds me, I already am.

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When the Clock Strikes Nine, The Hungry Will Dine

I’m innocently lounging around on my couch. The TV is occasionally tuned in to something on TLC. Perhaps I’m in the midst of writing a blog. I could be knee deep in an Agatha Christie mystery. It may even be the case that I’m taking a moment to rest my eyes.

And then it happens.

cheesecake o'clock

The clock strikes nine.

In a zombie-like trance I shuffle into the kitchen. My books and comfy couch forgotten, I open the food pantry door with a stealth I didn’t know I could possess. The crickets silence. The lights dim. A sudden glimpse of my cat’s tail darting around the corner hints at the terror that will soon follow.

My intense stare falls upon the food.

And then it happens.

The ravenous beast lurking somewhere in the depths of my belly comes alive and transforms this carrot and hummus munching day-goer into an ice-cream and candy creature of the night. Popsicles, popcorn, Pop Tarts, nothing will survive as I conquer the kitchen and mark what is rightfully mine.

Actual photo representation of my transformation.

Actual photo representation of my transformation.

And then it happens.

cat in food bowl

As if waking up from a deep sleep, I truly open my eyes to a scene of utter carnage and destruction. Wrappers litter the counter space as the trashcan overflows with bags of chips so empty that not even a crumb remains.

How could this have happened again?

Who could ever tame the savage beast?

Why do we keep buying deliciously creamy and tempting jars of peanut butter in the house?!