I ❤️ earnest lesbians

So, in my latest bout of self-improvement, I’ve been trying to “put myself out there” a bit more and not be quite such a Stay-home Sally.

I’d previously joined a Queer Book Club and never gone. (Well actually I had gone, but had been overcome by mild diarrhoea and extreme shyness and had observed the book club for ten minutes from the other side of the pub before running away and going home.)

This time, I was feeling braver and, having read almost all of the book for this month, I actually went to the meeting.

From spying on the meeting before, I knew that it would be mainly lesbians, which is a comfort. I like lesbians, and have always found it easier to relax around them than it is around gay men.

I remember when I first came out to someone other than a priest when I was 16, and it was my supervisor at the restaurant where I worked at weekends and she set me up for coffee with a lesbian who used to also work at the restaurant and it was my first time talking to someone who was gay about being gay and although she didn’t really know what to say, she was exactly as kind as she should have been and she pointed me to a gay youth group, where I did meet an actual male gay my own age, but he didn’t matter as much as the lesbian group leader with whom I watched Beautiful Thing for the first time. I remember being totally overwhelmed by the movie and its depiction of a mother accepting her son’s homosexuality in a way I knew mine never could. And the lesbian youth group leader could see I needed a hug and she gave me an excellent one.

And then I went to university and didn’t succeed in making any gay male friends, but one of my best friends was a lesbian, someone I still think of as a good friend even if I rarely see her. She is one of my more successful friends and when I was first living in Dublin around 2007, I remember going to barbecues at her large, expensive, South County Dublin home, and later, her large North County Wicklow home. On at least one occasion, I was the only non-lesbian at one of her barbecues and it was wonderful. It was at one of these barbecues that I learned that it was my fate in life to always say the Wrong Thing to lesbians. As I walked along the beach near the house with a group of five or six lesbians and they all told me about their jobs (politics, child abuse prevention, human rights law, that kind of thing) and asked me what I did. I said “I teach English to foreigners”. There was a Literal Collective Gasp. One of the lesbians told me that we don’t say that word and I should say “I teach English to the New Irish” or “I teach English to foreign nationals”. I don’t think it even occurred to them that I was doing something as base and grubby as teaching in a private institution where all the students were rich and would be going home after their little language holiday in Dublin. They presumed I was working with asylum seekers or refugees. I didn’t enlighten them.

So back to my Queer Book Club. I was seven minutes late. In Ireland, that would be on time. Something like a book club wouldn’t start at the advertised time. But the English, much as I love them, are monstrous and intolerant when it comes to punctuality and so even informal get-togethers start on time.

There were about 20 people there, about 14 women and 6 men and I loved it. Talking about books is great.

Friends of mine often seem to get excited at the thought of me doing things like going to gay book clubs or joining gay choirs. I think they think that I might meet someone better than my Creepy Online Men. It’s not worth explaining that (a) the men in the choir/book club/gardening society are also Creepy Online Men when they’re not at the choir/book club/knitting group and (b) it just seems like a devastatingly unsexy place to meet a man.

Anyway, as is usual at any gay event, I gravitated towards the lesbians. Almost everything interesting said at the meeting was said by a woman anyway. The men seemed perfectly nice, but it’s just not a flirty place. It’s a bit like a church group.

Anyway, we discussed the book for an hour, and then there was a break and then a vote for the book we’d read two months from now. Next month’s book had already been chosen. I was chatting a bit to the woman beside me during this break, someone who’d made lots of funny and interesting contributions during the meeting. She was telling me I should propose a book to read. That was when I said the Wrong Thing. I had noticed that the book chosen for this month was one that focused on lesbians and the one for next month focused on gay men and I wondered was it considered bad form to have two men-focused novels two months in a row. I asked the woman next to me “Do we go boy-girl-boy-girl?” She asked me what I meant but it was immediately clear that I’d said completely the wrong thing. I was told that this was a queer group and men and women did not take turns and that the feminists wouldn’t tolerate it. She was very nice but very firm. And I was terrified. But in a nice way. Sometimes, it’s really good to be around people who believe in things.

In the vote for the next book, I didn’t vote for either a book focused specifically on gay men or on lesbians, but one on a trans woman instead.

Anyway, I didn’t stay for drinks after the meeting, but I’ll go again. It was fun.

In other “Connor puts himself out there” news, I almost went to an improv class on Thursday, but ended up being locked out because I was ten minutes late and this is England.

Anyway, I can’t have something on every night of the week, so it’s ok. I have to have time to do my online job and to go to the gym and go to the pub and write my next book and start making videos and blogs again.

And in other news, I lost six pounds this week, so I’m back. (In fact, don’t tell anyone, but I think this might have been my favourite week of 2018 so far.) 🙂

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I was supposed to go to Stockholm this weekend. In a flurry of determination to make life better the week after my dad died, I had registered for the Stockholm marathon this weekend and booked Ryanair tickets.

Even though I decided in February not to do the marathon, I still planned to go and have a nice little weekend break in Stockholm.

But I decided not to go in the end. I was tired and broken and had just had stress levels go up after a visit home and I needed to get my life together and I didn’t need to spend money I didn’t have on Swedish hotels and meatballs.

I don’t think I’ve ever been as tired as I’d been in the last week or so. I needed to stop and regroup and actually try to make things better.

Lots of things have been going on, but let’s focus on weight. I’ve got very heavy again, not quite to my maximum ever, but to what feels like my maximum. I’m the kind of size where putting on one sock in the morning is just such a mammoth task and takes my breath away that I sit there on my bed, looking at my second sock and trying not to cry at the thought of having to get that on too. I’m the kind of weight where I wake up in the middle of the night with pains all over because my joints just can’t bear the pressure my weight puts on them. And the hot weather just makes everything harder. I’m one of those fat people now who pants for no reason. Like I’m just sitting down and I haven’t exerted myself at all, and I can hear myself panting. My body needs a change.

And I hadn’t managed to stop the bingeing.

So instead of going to Stockholm, I had four days to work on me.

And the number one thing I did was to go to a hypnotist. I’d bought a hypnotherapy session on Groupon months ago and it was soon to run out. I slept and ate most of Thursday and I made my appointment with the hypnotist for Friday morning.

Of course I was late. I scrambled around trying to get out of the house on time but a bus just wouldn’t get me there on time and I ended up getting an Uber for the price of a hotel room in Stockholm. I wasn’t going to waste this long weekend and not do anything to help myself. I had to get to the hypnotist!

The hypnotist was a Groupon hypnotist so my expectations were low. And I wasn’t going to some swanky city centre office. I was going to his home, an ordinary-looking semi-detached house in the suburbs of South London.

He greeted me kindly and brought me into his office, which had a slightly funny smell. As soon as I sat down, the chair began to give under my weight and it started rolling backwards. I quickly anchored myself by holding onto the desk, spreading my weight carefully. (Thin people will never know what it is to as afraid of chairs and their potential to suddenly break as I am.)

Anyway, he was a very nice middle-aged man. But I guess I’m middle-aged. Sigh. Let’s say he was about fifty. He seemed kind. While I filled in the form about my medical history, he asked me about my broadband provider as he was having problems with Virgin Media.

Then the counselling started. He was nice, but of course it’s always difficult with a new person to say “ta-dah! — here is a list of all my issues!” I told him stuff related to eating and food and weight because that’s what I wanted to work on. I couldn’t tell him I was gay. I still work from the assumption that any man older than me is homophobic. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do. And so later in the session, when he started talking about a future where I get a girlfriend, I just smiled and nodded.

He started asking about childhood memories and we did some exercises where I closed my eyes and he led me through relaxation exercises as he had me visualising good and bad childhood and teenage memories. It was surprisingly effective.

I didn’t think it would work at all. He had a relatively heavy Indian-English accent, so when he said my name and the names of the people and places I was visualising, they didn’t sound at all like anyone would have said them in my childhood so that jolted me out of it, as well as the fact that he kept mixing up my memories and so a story I told him about something that happened in the kitchen was transported to the garden when he described the memory and asked me to visualise it. But I kept the faith, I visualised the memories. I felt the feelings. And after a few of these exercises, it was definitely true that the painful memories were less painful.

I had renewed faith in his methods as I opened my eyes and we talked some more. That said, I did have moments of doubt. He told me that I should lose weight slowly so I wouldn’t have a loose skin problem. LOL. I could lose the weight over five years and there would still be loose skin. No one who hasn’t lost over a hundred pounds should ever give weight loss advice.

When I told him I had a PhD, he looked physically shocked. He said, “you are more qualified than me!” He seemed to take my problems less seriously after that. That should have annoyed me. But it didn’t. I think his attitude was something along the lines of “well this guy can achieve difficult things so he doesn’t really need all that much help” and it kind of persuaded me that that should be my attitude too.

Anyway, after this chat, it was time for me to get hypnotised.

I moved into a reclining leather seat and he had me lie back. It was very comfy and it was the first time I really felt like this was actually hypnosis, although the noise of his washing machine spinning next door did keep me tied to the reality of the situation too.

We started with some simple relaxation and more visualisation. Again, as he spoke, he kept getting the details of my life slightly wrong, but it didn’t matter. At one stage, he made my arm move up (seemingly involuntarily) while I thought of a list of things and later it moved down while I thought about something resolving itself. It’s not that I felt I couldn’t control my arm if I chose to, but I certainly felt I wasn’t controlling it at that moment. I’m not questioning why it worked, but it did.

I left his office feeling buoyant and with a sense of self belief I often lack. I’m still feeling some left over glitter in my soul from it three days later.

I weighed myself at Boots an hour or so later. I’ve gained 10 pounds since I last weighed myself. Considering just how much I’ve binged in the last month, that’s not as bad as I expected. And I’ve been in control ever since. Three days without bingeing. Three days of feeling so much more peaceful than I have in weeks. (In another unexpected benefit, I have now gone since Friday morning without checking my work email once. That’s the first time since starting this job over a year ago that I’ve gone more than a day without checking my work email and it’s lovely.)

I’m feeling hopeful. I will go back for more hypnotherapy. I don’t know if it will be to the same hypnotist, but I do like it a lot.

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There’ll be a longer blogpost tomorrow. This one is just a silly thought that came into my brain last week when I was at the dentist.

I don’t go to the dentist a lot – only three times in my adult life, which dentists tell me off for, but I’ve never had a filling or an extraction or any other dental procedures, so I guess I’m not doing too badly.

Last week, my dentist was trying to put an instrument in my mouth, which my tongue instinctively pushed away and she commented “You have a large and muscular tongue”. This blatantly sexual statement got me thinking…

Why getting your teeth polished is a lot like giving a blow job

  • Keeping your mouth open for a sustained period of time never seems like a challenge in theory, but when you actually have to do it, it’s pretty uncomfortable.
  • You’re never fully sure where your tongue should be.
  • Your jaw aches.
  • You know that you could ask the dentist/penis-owner for a break when it’s getting uncomfortable, but you know that in both cases they’d prefer to just get on with it.
  • The dentist/penis-owner says things to you even though they know you can’t answer.
  • Saliva pools in weird parts of your mouth and other bits of your mouth go weirdly dry
  • Spitting afterwards doesn’t really clear out all the gunk
  • No matter what you eat for the next few hours, your mouth still tastes of “it”
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Round 2

Life sneaks up on you. And sometimes you sneak up on you too.

This is the story of my last ten days, not my greatest ten days.

Last Thursday week, I was leaving work when I got a WhatsApp from one of my colleagues. It simply said “Pints. Come.”

I knew where the pints were being had. I didn’t need any more information. I went and there were pints and friends from work and it was lovely.

I didn’t plan on staying long.

Five hours and many ciders later, having been shushed by the barman for rowdily singing Cher’s Believe and Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive together at the top of our cider-soaked voices (I have found the right kind of London friends), I was in a Tube home.

I was very drunk. But my other job was waiting. I had 33,000 words to proofread by the following morning at 7:00 am. My main job pays my ridiculously high London rent. My proofreading job pays for everything else in my life. And a 33,000-word job was too big and too profitable to not get right. It was after midnight when I got home and I knew I had to sober up and spend at least two hours on this job.

I’d been so so good for weeks. But my drunken brain didn’t see another option. I ordered the Credit Crunch special from my local pizzeria. £10.99 for a box of wedges, an 8-inch garlic bread pizza, a 16-inch meat lover’s pizza and a litre and a half of Diet Coke.

The meal did the trick, sobering me up sufficiently to get the job done.

I fell asleep at 3:00 am, with a belly full of cider and pizza and wedges.

I was awake at 7:00 and I didn’t want to be alive.

How did I survive the next day at work? I ate my way through the day. It was OK if I binged today, I reasoned. The next day would be Saturday. I could sleep, recover and reset.

But the bingeing didn’t stop. I was all in. I woke on Saturday with so many good intentions. Fun things to do. Worthy things to do. Go to the cinema. Clean the flat. Get back into my book. Record a YouTube video. Go shopping.

I couldn’t face it. My Saturday went like this: I got up. I dragged myself to a shop, bought enough to food to feed a regiment and ate until I was too sick to stay up. I went back to bed and spent the rest of the day fitfully sleeping off the binge, telling myself Sunday would be better.

Bingeing has something in common with smoking. I remember when I was a smoker (seven years smoke free today!) I couldn’t sleep if I knew I didn’t have any more cigarettes. I’d go to a shop and buy a box of fags and that would be all I’d need. I wouldn’t actually need to smoke one. I’d just need to know that I had cigarettes in the house. Then I could sleep. A binge is the same. I don’t quit on my day while I’m bingeing. It’s the moment I decide to phone for the takeaway, or decide to go to the shop that I breathe a sigh of relief. Phew. I won’t have to face life today. I can just eat until I can’t stand up and then go back to bed, even if it’s just 2:00 pm.

This has been my pattern for years.

I thought I’d broken it. Four weeks into my diet and it was going fine. Not fast, but fine. But the binge has lasted more or less ten days now. Days at work are better, but not the evenings. And I visited friends and went to a show in lovely Newcastle last week and that snapped me out of my binge for a while too, though I was still a bit groggy most of my time there. But the rest of the time has been bad.

I think I’ve gained back most of the weight I’d lost. Possibly more than I’d lost.

And my weight is driving me mad. The constant and severe pain in my hips and ankles is just intolerable. I’m getting less able to move. After work today, when I was on my way home, I was so tired that I sat on a bench on the platform of Stockwell station while over twenty-five trains passed by, all of them going my direction. I was just too tired to get on any of them. I was there so long that two different Transport for London staff members approached me to see if I was OK.

I’ve kept myself going with five or six bottles of Coke Zero a day. I’m still doing both of my jobs. And doing them well. But life is getting harder.

So I’m starting again. Round 2 has begun. I know I can do this. I haven’t made all the appointments I’d promised to make with the doctor and the hypnotist and whatever else I could. I’m making those appointments. I’m calorie counting again. I’m walking again. I’m going to win.

And if I don’t win, what have I got to lose?

About sixteen stone.

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Feet before meet

[NSFW/TMI warnings ahoy! Absolute filth ahead.]

Men are entirely unreasonable beings. Since my voyage of queer self-discovery kicked into fifth gear with my arrival in London, I have learned many things. But I think the thing I have really learned is that men simply refuse to believe that I don’t want to have sex with them.

I had stopped my Growlr app from sending me notifications for the last few weeks. My levels of tolerance for getting messages straight to my phone from “bareback cumdump bottoms looking for a hung top” while I was at work/on the bus/ watching Netflix had worn thin. But yesterday, I was feeling in need of attention, so I turned notifications back on.

There were a lot of messages, one from a man with a cute smiley profile pic. We chatted briefly and it didn’t take long before we’d exchanged photos, had agreed to meet up that evening and had moved the conversation onto WhatsApp. Initially, he’d been very agreeable when he asked what I was looking for and I said I was just after a kiss and a bit of a naked cuddle and nothing hardcore, he said “Same”. (I’d been doing something much more risqué the previous night – more of that in a minute, but yesterday I was in need of affection, and not sex.) “Same” was exactly the answer I wanted to hear. But things took a sudden turn when he said “I need to see your feet before we meet”.


But I’m a good sport. I don’t have a problem with foot fetishes. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? I’m fine with having my feet licked or kissed. I’m also fine with masturbating a man with my feet. Far better that a man would want to do something weird to your feet than that wants to do something weird to an actual orifice.

So, I hauled my right foot into my lap, took off my sock and sent the man a close-up photo. “Cool. Other one.” came the message in response. Another foot. Another sock. Another photo. I really am very accommodating. I asked what he wanted to do to my feet and he said he just wanted to make sure they were clean as he’d once been with a guy with dirty feet. I didn’t really believe him, but I didn’t push it. The conversation went on.

Even though he’d agreed that we should meet at his place, he changed his mind suddenly and started insisting we meet at mine. I don’t like bringing new men to my lovely flat. My flat is my safe space. It’s decorated whimsically and Connorishly, lots of colours and throws and pillows and knick-knacks and books and One Direction paraphernalia. Men who are attracted to men that look like me do not like One Direction. I pine for a man who likes Julie Andrews and Niall Horan, a man who wants to watch old episodes of The OC on a Sunday morning while we paint each other’s toe nails. But those kind of gays like skinny men. They don’t like me. The kind of men who like me like rugby and motorbikes and superhero movies.

The last guy I had back to my place was the silent Swedish guy. My main memory of being with him is him kneeling up on my bed, while I busied myself with his willy. But I wasn’t thinking about his willy. I was just thinking about what he was looking at up there, whether he was looking at the large portrait of One Direction dressed as 1950s sailors hanging above my bed or at the huge special annotated edition of Little Women I had on my bedside locker. What was he thinking? Was he judging me? Of course, I never found out if he was judging me, because our encounter was so silent, but he hasn’t been in touch again and I’m presuming it’s because he didn’t like my decor and not because of my absent-minded ministrations to his willy.

So I didn’t want to invite foot fetish man to my flat. It just feels too intimate, too revealing of myself. And I didn’t feel ready for that. He got pissed off with me and the conversation ended, so I didn’t get my cuddles and he didn’t get to cum on my toes, or whatever it was he was planning to do.

I was ok with that. As I mentioned earlier, I’d got some the previous day and wasn’t desperate for sex.

I was back with the kinky deputy headteacher. It’s comforting to know someone always wants me. And he seems to. And he’s kinky as hell, and that’s exciting, and I’ve got to the stage where I can trust him.

I mentioned in my last post that I’ve taken to dressing more elaborately for work, with shirts and braces and ties and tie clips and I love it. Being undressed when you’re just wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and can be naked in seconds is exciting. But being undressed piece by complicated piece is exquisite. I recommend it highly. I think I now understand men’s love for women in elaborate, complicated and no doubt uncomfortable undergarments. There’s so much more unwrapping involved.

And yes, this guy’s flat stinks of poppers and yes, he did once try to put an actual dog collar on me and yes, he once put a mask on me. But, I looked around his apartment and saw a life. A note from someone calling him the best boyfriend. His sports trophies. The photo of his dead granny with her date of birth and death. The piano, with the sheet music for a Disney film in the music stand. What we do together is weird and I’m not sure why I enjoy it, but it’s certainly a part of me that it’s fun to explore and I’m glad he’s still interested. One of these days, we might even have a conversation, though that might ruin the magic.

Speaking of gay magic, last weekend was my first time at a gay club since arriving in London a year and a half ago. I’ve been in lots of gay pubs, but not a club, in spite of planning to at least a bajillion times. My people-phobia stopped me too often. But a colleague of mine insisted that I go with him and I’m delighted I did.

It’s a men-only (is that even legal?) bear-ish nightclub and I loved it. It’s like I imagined gay clubs were when I was a teenager and what they never turned out to be. Until now.

It’s a massive space – only in a city like London could you fill a club this size with this type of gay – and it’s a very sexual place, about half the men were shirtless. There was a lot of leather gear, men in sports clothes, men in kilts, men in all kinds of outfits. And it’s a place where men of all kinds of sizes are welcome. Strangers squeezed my ass. A creepy old man tried to come on to me. There were two dancefloors, one with dance music, and a somewhat more muscly, more druggy crowd and one with the best cheesy gay music ever, where the younger twinky types and the less muscly, flabbier men tended to be. I didn’t have a perfect night. I didn’t get kissed. I didn’t work up the courage to dance shirtless even though I wanted to. I got tired too early. But I haven’t known group happiness like I knew jumping up and down with fifty shirtless homosexuals who all knew all of the words to Call Me Maybe even though it’s 2018 and we’re supposed to have moved on as a culture. At the end of that song, I turned to my friend and said “I love being gay” and I really, really do.

Anyway, in other news, all the drinking that weekend didn’t impact too badly on this week’s weigh-in, another two pounds down. I think we can safely say that London Connor is back. 🙂

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My own Bombshell Coach

It’s Project Connor’s eighth birthday! Happy birthday, blog!

It’s all going well. Not perfectly, but very well. I am still on the wagon. I have counted calories for three weeks and lost a nice 13 pounds. Not one binge in all that time.

I can already feel thinner. There is more room in my clothes.

One of my PhD supervisor’s favourite words was trajectory. He may be an educational philosopher, but he used the word trajectory as often as a NASA flight engineer. And I’m on a good trajectory now. The diet is no longer as difficult as it was when I last wrote here. I’m in the flow of counting calories now and I’m in a rhythm of moderation.

This should mean that I have a lot more money to spare. I’m no longer ordering pizza or Indian for delivery five or six nights a week. That’s a lot of money saved. Unfortunately, in my excitement at the extra money, I’ve done quite a lot of online shopping and spent it all at once.

I bought so many tickets to shows. My theatre rate had slowed down in the last few months, as my evenings had become more and more about food. But I work mere minutes from London’s Glittering West End and I’m damned if I’m going to waste it. Even if that means I’m going to see Bat Out Of Hell, the musical based on the songs of Meatloaf.  I went to two shows last week and I’m going to two this week and I already have three more booked for the coming weeks. So I’ve spent lots of money on tickets.

And on clothes. I’m the only person in my workplace who wears ties. It started with the ones I inherited from my dad and I’m enjoying being a shirt-and-tie-and-braces person a bit too much. I’ve started ordering ties from TiesPlanet.com – a whole planet of ties! And I also got a tie pin. Just one. So far. But there are so many out there.  Man-jewellery! I’m plotting so many ties and braces and shirts and tie pins. I’ve also bought a pile of new shirts from Jacamo, everyone’s favourite men’s plus size online clothing retailer that delivers on the same day if you live in Actual London like I do.

I’m sure lots of people settle on a personal style before they’re 37 years old like I am, but I love a makeover. Love a makeover. There is nothing that is more likely to make me enjoy a movie than a makeover montage. And I love makeover TV shows too. Queer Eye and What Not To Wear and How to Look Good Naked and all the others. Even the Canadian classic Style by Jury with its ‘Bombshell Coach’ (a dream job). And I’ve made over my own personal look quite a few times in the last twenty years. I think my willingness to change is partly due to the fact that fat people are encouraged to believe that their bodies aren’t real, that the ‘real me’ is the ‘thin person inside trying to get out’ and the person in the mirror isn’t actually who I am, so I never really look at myself and see ‘myself’, just a temporary version, while the real one is being repaired at the garage.

Anyway, I’m now considering giving away most of my more casual clothes and becoming a seven-day-a-week shirt-and-tie person, but only if I can manage to make the shirts and ties as whimsical and joyful as I want them to be.

It’s exciting. As are the shows. Yes, I’m wasting money, but I’m enjoying it.

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Breathing out

I’ve discovered the secret to making breathing more fun. I now lie in bed or sit at my desk at work and breathe out and am secretly pleased with my breath.

I read an article recently about losing weight. It was about where the fat goes when you lose weight. It doesn’t “turn into muscle”, as you really should know. A bit of it is lost through sweat and pee and poo, but not the majority of it. Most of it is lost through respiration.

That’s right, when you lose weight, your fat is turned into chemicals that you literally breathe out. Since I learned that fact I lie in bed, and I feel myself breathing and I feel like I did when I gave up smoking, where every cough was the sound of the smoker I used to be dying. When I’ve eaten within my calories for the day, I just have to breathe and the fat is exiting with every breath. My breath is the death throes of my fat.

And I have eaten within my calories this week, so I’ve lost 8 pounds in the last seven days, which is a nice start.

The first few days were tough. I missed evening bingeing. If I didn’t get home after work and immediately gorge myself, how was I meant to spend the evening? How was I to get to sleep if I wasn’t to eat so much that my body began to shut down? New time opens up for me when I diet. Meals no longer need recovery time. It’s good, but at the start it’s empty and scary and a bit too real.

I’m OK with my reality these days, but there are times when the similarity between alcoholism and overeating strikes me. I understand that urge to obliterate your free time. The urge to forget. I don’t drink a lot. When I want to ease pain or to forget, I just download the Dominos app and start ordering. (I don’t leave the Dominos app on my phone. Like a true addict, I erase the evidence the next morning and then download it again that evening when I need it.) I haven’t binged in a week. And that’s a damn good start.

I’m feeling those happy feelings again.

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