So this week started badly at work. I’m good at what I do (managing a sales team), but for some reason, at the company I’m currently at, hitting that target just ain’t happening. Do I think it’s my fault? No, I honestly don’t, but that doesn’t stop my paranoia, anxiety and low self-esteem chorussing their disapproval of me.
It’s been one of those weeks where I’ve over interpreted every word or gesture from my boss, where I’ve heard every unspoken word and where I’ve cried at passive-aggressive low blows. Seriously, it’s sucked.
What I found interesting was my reaction and actions. I’m supposed to be finding myself, being kick ass, rebuilding the awesome that was me, and what was my immediate response? “I’m going to go home, and eat chips and drink vodka til I physically can’t fit any more in.” How very grown up lol.
So why was this my immediate response? Why was food my first option? I’ve never really believed that I eat my feelings, but I do think maybe I eat to fill the void, and if I am empty, filling me up with food maybe transforms me from a hollow shell into an invincible …. donut?
I’m not proud of my response. I don’t mind the tears. They were cathartic, and they’d been building anyway. But why WERE those 4 chip butties so satisfying, so silencing, so successful at halting the noise and wrapping me in a peaceful, numbing coccoon? I never even got to the vodka.
It worries me there was peace in my food. That shouldn’t be a by-product of eating, unless you’re in a country where food is scarce. In my 21st century abyss, food should be an enemy that accelerates my fall, not a friend that cushions my landing and stops me feeling my broken bones.
Here’s to a better week!