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Why Can't I Stop? Bingeing on Despair.

Updated on May 9, 2016

Scrubbing Over With Grub.

My grandmother once said to me: "Brad. You don't eat to live, you live to eat." She was right. The compulsion to stuff my face has been ingrained within me since forever, certainly as long as I have any coherent memories (from about 7 onwards). Though, in a sense, all of us "live to eat," in the purest of terms, as we all live to imbibe fluid or inhale air. We are fuelled by interaction down to the most primeval mote of existence, ranging from bacteria to Bachelor's Degree. We are the stuff that connections are made of, so when does this runaway? What is the tipping point of trickle into a torrent? When does the moment of moderation tip over into the aeons of addiction?

I have been mulling this over in my head for some time. Every time before I turn in for bed, I give myself a pep talk and say that tomorrow I will make a difference. Yet the same routine rusts any cogs of progress that I intend to oil. I am attempting a series of mindfulness throughout my daily life to establish a boundary when it comes to eating. To view it as a necessity, no more, no less. Something to fuel me, not smother me. Craving is a wilderness that I willingly permit myself to be stranded in, trying to locate an oasis. Yet nature is a balance between fecundity and aridness and there needs to be consensus. I once shed all my weight, but did it by crash dieting. Therefore once I got to a desirable weight, I started to eat again and give myself permission to consume more: "because I'm skinny now." The start of my Depersonalisation. I am beginning to claw my way out of this trough with this admission.

Casing the Joint.

Earlier, as I made a cup of tea, I did my routine kitchen check. A cursory examination of the area for the vittles to fill an empty void that only increases every time it's rapacious whims are catered for. There is enough for me to consume several sandwiches tonight and that brings a withering, almost desperate sense of relief. Oftentimes, little is in the kitchen to sate these relentless urges and a scratching feeling of anger and irritability emerges. It's an insufferable scenario, where inner gnawing is roiling and is rarely satisfied, screaming why as a pointed spike of anxiety tries to settle and flounders. Why does this happen? What makes this core persist in the hub of my being that merely drives me off a cliff. Wrecks my health as a petrified boat is weighed down and ravaged by stirring tides of a storm laden stream?

Even in the event that I have enough to gorge on through the night - and even as I type - this perpetual turmoil never abates. The scratching nerves, determined claws, scour my stomach as I am made uncomfortaby aware of them as I address their presence. When I have the opportunity to binge without hindrance, I am never satisfied. If I start to feel full, I wait until it subsides and start the punishing ritual all over again. It's a habit seeking out comfort, yet routinely squanders any solace. I need to eat.

It is growing increasingly uncomfortable to put these feelings into words, I feel the raking of painful truths emitting annoyance at being disturbed, a funny ache clutching onto my temples. Yet there is also a thrill of hope. Optimism can be just as bad, as it drives me to feast. A somewhat casual and bestial nonchalance comsumes me and I begin gorging and piling over the fetid wastes of my better judgement. All to achieve a narcotic sense of brief respite and peace.

Comfort Bloating.

Once I have eaten, I never feel satisfied that I have taken a nice meal. There remains a nagging anger and displeasure that it is all over and I am planning my next fill. When gluttony is released, it is a stampede through an antiques shop. Once quiet has settled and I am alone, so begins my grazing of self-destruction. Prowling and intent on the ruination of the canker that is ruining me. When I overeat, I never enjoy the food or savour the taste. In fact, it often tastes of nothing, yet I am not eating for flavour, it is to garnish the demon that I cannot exorcise.

It has started to reach the point where it has robbed me of my health. Blood pressure and Sleep Apnoea are added bedfellows of the demon. My back now hurts if I walk too far and it still remains singing gently in my ear, lulling a false sense of security, while virally violating me. As I began this article and selected the sub-headings. A number of options were presented to me: Mental Health, Addiction. Yet there was no food addiction to choose from. I must fight this war daily and always engage my enemy.

I am always a glutton to obsession. I have an uncanny knack for hurling myself headlong into one thing at the diminishing of all peripheral information and cares. This is a throwback to my desire to quell the unease of the uncertain, the will to eliminate that which I cannot control. When I was slim, it was exercise. I used to get irritable if circumstances didn't allow me to do Yoga, for example. Instead of conceding that I can pick it up another time. The same goes with academic pursuits. Perhaps the comfort of my home life has allowed me to grow complacent too and consider there is always tomorrow. But that future is running out, swiftly. My rabid eating is snuffing out any shred of hope in a future, so it is time to remove the comfort blanket and sew seeds in a bleak hinterland of disquiet.

As I progress. I will fight the unholy alliance of compulsion, depression and anxiety, seasoned with Depersonalisation. Next time, I shall cover the roots of where this addiction came from.

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