I lost my mother four years ago, and the grief is still palpable. Most of the time, it is manageable. Most of the time. Today is not one of those days because today is my mother's birthday.
Some people sweat through their grief during a strenuous workout routine at a gym or running holes in their shoes on the roads behind their houses. Some people wash the grief down with a stiff shot, then rinse and repeat until they are numb. Some people sleep through it like a wannabe Rip Van Winkle. And others douse it in debauchery and set it on fire, hoping it will float up in smoke with the ashes at the end of the day. I don't do any of those things. I eat.
I don't just have a second or even a third helping; I eat enough for the whole family. I don't listen to my body. I don't hear the "I'm full" bell go off in my head. I eat until it hurts because then the other hurt I feel is drowned out for just a second. It's never for long, and then I'm eating again. This is how obesity happens. This is how you lose your life.
I weigh the most I have ever weighed in my life, and sometimes I feel the worst I have ever felt in my life. The two are interchangeable for me, and that is why no diet has ever worked for me. I know how to eat. I know what I should do; I just never do it. So, I'm trying something new. I'm being honest with you, and in turn I'm being honest with myself.
This is not a quick-fix situation. It might take years for me to see the results I both want and need, but one pound at a time is still one pound less. I will always be sad over the loss of my mother, but eating my grief stops now.