Through this all I’ve realized I have a complete lack of self-control. I’ve also realized that sometimes that’s probably a good thing.
First, I’m pretty sure the only way I’ve managed to crawl, roll, and occasionally walk my way through the past 26 years is that I’ve simply not wanted anything absolutely terrible. Between being guided by other (wiser) opinions, and my truly good life, I was never left with anything that I both really wanted and was really bad for me.
And then there was four months ago. Self-control – probably would have been a good thing.
And then, there was the aftermath. I was a wreck. At first I couldn’t eat, and then I didn’t want to. Not because I thought I was grossly obese, but between a need to gain some sort of control over my life and subversive desire to sabotage myself, an eating disorder was a perfect fit.
Except for the part where apparently heroine addicted fashion runway teens are better at life than I am. Any time my stomach started to rumble my well-meaning intentions to add eating disorder to my rapid growing list of ‘what’s wrong with me’ was immediately crushed. I don’t even have enough self-control to properly pull off an eating disorder.
Though I guess probably good for me.
Excepting my depleted self-esteem, that, following this realization, is now thoroughly crushed and buried in my back yard next to Rufus, my nearly blind dead dog. I probably lied about the back yard. And the dog. Dead dogs can’t see, not even a little bit.