It’s 1:45am.

Everyone is sleeping.

I’m not hungry.

I’m bored.  My hands are idle.

I eat half a snickers bar.  A bag of fruit snacks.  A cold eggroll from dinner.

So fast, I don’t even taste it.

I should be writing, but I’m not.

I’m thinking about what’s in my fridge.

Stuff I’m totally not going to eat.  I think.

Normally, I would feel bad right now.

In high school, I would have made myself throw up.  Even though I was absolutely horrible at it.  I would lean over the toilet seat and think as hard as I could about anything that would turn my stomach enough to make my lunch come up.  Sometimes it’d take two trips.   Sometimes my knees would bleed.

I can’t do that now.  My hands are never clean enough.  Throwing up is way more complicated than it used to be.  It’d require a towel between my legs and an audience of three.

But, it’s more than that.

I stand naked in front of the full length fun house mirror in my bathroom and take stock of things.

I think… do I hate all this so much, that I can’t live with it?

That I can’t live?

It’s annoying, right?  Finding that equilibrium of self acceptance.

Just when I finally get it, my jeans feel tight, or I see a bad picture of myself, and poof.

Gone.

I think about all the things that got me here.

Three babies.  Wine on my front porch.  An extra slice with the boys.  Two scoops.  Movie theater butter.  Blue Moon.  Bad day milkshakes.

I love those things.

But, I don’t love what I see when I look in the mirror.  And yet, I don’t despise it either.

And that, my friends, is progress.

I think I’m just broken.

In the most deliciously, unfixable way.

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