Global Whining

Fair warning: this is me right now.

Before I begin, I should say that this has all been said before, far better than I could ever hope to explain it.  To read it from someone whose skills with words far exceed my own, go here and here.

I'll wait.

Okay, so now that you've read those, it's my turn. Since my experience is through the filter of someone whose blog is primarily about weight loss, I'll start by saying that being on a diet is an excellent time to get hit with a big ball of depression.  Instead of contemplating cutting and suicide, you contemplate Dominos and Taco Bell.

Goodbye, cruel world

Sometime, about a week ago, I got home from work, took one look at my treadmill, and experienced all manner of emotions, ranging from unadulterated sadness to serious rage.  The same thing happened when I went to the kitchen to construct my dinner salad.  I didn't want salad.  I didn't want to run.  I didn't want to do sit-ups.  I wanted a goddamn, mother fucking Twinkie.  I chalked this up to general fatigue... boredom with my diet and exercise regimen.  So I went out and slaked my lust for empty calories, vowing to get back on track the following day.  But something had started to gain momentum inside me, something far more unpleasant than cravings for baked goods of questionable nutritional value.  Tuesday afternoon, I went shopping, but couldn't get as excited about fitting into smaller sizes as I had in past trips.  Wednesday morning, I had a job interview, which may or may not have gone swimmingly.  I honestly don't know.  Because it was at that point that I genuinely stopped giving a fuck.  Thursday morning, I woke up underneath an insurmountable pile of apathy.  I told everyone that I was just tired, but what had happened was that I simply did not care.  I felt like Earth's gravity had increased, like I was in one of those centrifuge rides at a carnival, going full speed and even moving my arms required vast amounts of strength. 

I drove home and sat in my driveway for a little while, not going inside partially because I wasn't sure I possessed the energy to do so, but also because I didn't want to deal with people.  It exhausted me to even consider the idea of carrying on a conversation with anyone in my family.  Especially my mom.  She can spot something wrong with one of her children from miles away.  Unfortunately, this is paired with the fact that she is the most judgmental, least empathetic person I've ever met.  Everything I've ever done or wanted to do, everything I've ever gotten excited about, she will find something about which to be critical.  It's like she tries to suck the happiness out of my plans.  She'd probably tell me that I'm going about being depressed all wrong.  So I was confronted with the unpleasant task of trying to carry myself as though everything was rainbows and sunshine.  It's an interesting thing that happens when you try really hard to look normal... you start to look as abnormal as possible.

I'M FINE, I SWEAR! LOOK AT HOW FINE I AM!

So that happened.  I gorged myself, in a failed attempt at making myself seem like I was okay. I went to my bedroom, full of regret and self-loathing, feeling like Jabba the Hutt.  I hated myself for eating so much.  And then a weird thing happened.  I wanted to punish myself, so I went back into the kitchen and ATE SOME MORE.  I wasn't even hungry.  If anything, I was already sickened with the amount of calories I had poured into my gaping mouth that evening.  But it seemed like the thing to do.

What happens after these unfortunate events to someone in my state of mind is this: you get stuck in the infinite loop of suck.

You tell yourself that your life could be way more awful, so you have no business feeling bad about how it is now.  Add a tablespoon of stress eating and a dash of lethargy, bake for 24 hours, and you've got a big serving of Welcome Back To The World of Being a Fatass.  The last time I was at the gym was Monday night.  I keep telling myself to go after work, but I lack the energy or desire to do so.  I also keep telling myself to stop eating things that are bad for me, but I just don't care anymore and, I'm pretty sure that, if I see a salad right now, I'm going to turn into She-Hulk.

MADIGAN SMASH!

But of course, all of that just makes me feel worse about things.  I don't feel like I deserve to feel bad.  So I feel bad about feeling bad.  And then feeling bad deprives me of any energy, so I don't exercise and then I feel bad about that.  And then I throw back a whole mess of comfort food in an attempt to make myself feel better, but then I feel bad for being a hungry, hungry hippo.  And somewhere in my brain is an angry little person who, apparently influenced by TV shows where the teenager gets caught smoking and is made to smoke the whole pack as punishment, yells at me, "Oh, so you like that ice cream?  Here!  Eat half a carton if it makes you feel so good!"  And then I go to bed with a stomachache because my system has gotten used to plants and lean meat and doesn't know what to do with all this sugar and fat and processed food.  And then... say it with me... I feel bad.  And that little tune has just been playing on repeat for the last few days.

I don't know what to do about this.  Even if I did, the level of apathy I have about everything would prevent me from doing it.  I nearly called in sick to work this morning just because I really didn't want to get out of bed.  I'm not overcome with pain or sadness... it's just that I cannot make myself care about anything going on in my life.  It would probably suck more if I could be bothered to give a fuck.

Worst. Blog. Ever.