Take a good look at me...

I've always put a great deal of pressure on myself to work hard, accept no excuses, never be idle, and fear the great unknown of the dreaded times when I have no goal with which to beat my brains. Once a goal is met, another, or another ten must swiftly sweep in and replace it lest seven minutes sans earnest effort cause a lapse in control.

I am now beginning to feel the effects of the hunger on my constitution. More than ample sleep is needed, and slumber can be extended indefinitely once within. Falling asleep is the challenge. Insomnia is the bedfellow of all things restriction. Not only do I remain awake because of the fighting and "flighting" inside my cells, but the constant dialogue my head must keep in order for my behavior to meet her stringent expectations.

I have wonderful plans for this evening, and I sit here wishing I had not made them, firing salvos at my folly for even spending the preliminary funds on the whole thing. my wish is to remain home, entrapped, enslaved, and euphoric. We shall see if I am able to break free from the reigns and enjoy a solitary event that does not even present a food war.

My rituals are increasing. I have a "magic" bowl that is the only bowl from which I will eat at home. The shallow walls allow for less food to seem as more as I pine for more than the paltry rations supplied by my commander. The sound of the fork tines against the bisque walls of the rim offer comfort as the simple serving diminishes, becomes a cue to my body to awaken, and a reminder by my disorder that I should be grateful someone as fat as I is even allowed to eat at all.

As the meal ends, the design revealed is whimsical. Sometimes the pattern seems a nasty chide to my gluttony. Other times the print represents a visual reminder of something with greater levity -- the silliness of all this fasting and wasting.

With my education and career, why in the world would I ever think so little of myself as to let this monster back into my life?

It is a question, to be sure.