I ate eight full ounces of ice cream yesterday. Ice cream is one of my toxic foods, i.e., food I eat when I am sad and doing my damnedest to repress it. These foods include, but are not limited to: cake, cookies, donuts, pizza, milk chocolate, alcohol—anything that’s high sugar, high wheat and/or high dairy. I know better than to consume these things. My constitution is quite sensitive (e.g., I’m allergic to wheat, and I get drunk after two beers), and I always feel like shit afterward. I feel constipated and congested and my mood plummets. I also know that repressing emotions only exacerbates them, but as I’ve said before, sometimes I just like to fuck things up.
I tell myself: I’m fine with rejection. I’m used to it by now. Publication doesn’t matter. There are more important things in life than being a published writer. But to some degree, I’m just bullshitting myself. I’m sad and depressed, and I want a level of comfort that no outside force can give me. Sure, I’m balanced-on-a-razor’s-edge depressed most days of my life, but after a rejection (sometimes weeks after a rejection), I enter the realm of self-acknowledged depressed. Here’s the distinction.
Balanced-on-a-razor’s-edge depressed means I’ve been meditating four plus times weekly, taking my Ayurvedic supplements consistently to balance out my serotonin and other hormones, kinda-sorta-half-assed eating healthy, writing (even if it’s just journaling), and exercising an average of once a week. If I meditate and exercise more and eat better, I can elevate myself to a balanced state of mind.
Self-acknowledged depressed means I just don’t give a fuck about one of the vital components mentioned in the previous paragraph. Perhaps I only meditated twice that week or I skipped my supplements. Perhaps I haven’t been writing or exercising. Perhaps I ate ice cream or drank alcohol (even if it’s just eight ounces). I end up vegging out on the couch, trying to calculate the exact moment when I failed myself and God. Note to reader: I am the first to admit that I’m dramatic as hell.
So, I gotta pump the brakes; otherwise, I’ll eat cake or some other toxic food then I’ll skip the gym and meditation, and I’ll be in full-throttle motherfucking depression within two days. I forced myself to make lunch this morning when I really wanted to sleep late and go out for fast food on my lunch break. On my commute to work and throughout the day, I repeated over and over again: I will go to the gym after work. I will work out. Yeah, I went to the fucking gym.
I want to throw a tantrum and lick my wounds for the next month, but I have to woman-up. When I’m hurt, I have to try harder, become even more regimented. I have to plan my meals, go grocery shopping and cook consistently. Fuck, I hate domesticity! But I have to do it. My husband and I both cook about twice a week, but I have to do more. He can eat and drink whatever he wants and is a balanced as all get out. This is not the case for me.
I have to exercise twice a week at a minimum, ideally more. I have to read more. This calms me. I can work the shit out of a treadmill when I have a good audiobook playing. I have to meditate and not miss my supplements. I have to write even if I feel like a loser. I have to fight for a balanced state of mine every day, or I won’t write. And I have to write.