The Gluttony Crisis
At this present moment, my life is like an apocalyptic playlist on perpetual shuffle with one harrowing crisis met by another. Assuming you know my current affliction (relapsed leukimea after almost five years of indulgence) you may show me some tenderness when I tell you I'm feeling a little sour.
Yesterday, a sultry cloud locked itself into position over the sun. I careened out of the bathtub after my midday slumber, locked eyes with the scales and hopped on. The results, to my absolute disgust, exposed the true reality of eating for three.
The past month has allowed me to feast on all things tantalising that potentially will have me induced into a diabetic coma within the hour. Even sleep brings no respite; I eat 24 hours a day with nightfall being my hunting hour.
In the hospital, if I crawl to the end of my bed, the fridge is a small arm stretch away where my mum keeps a constant supply of Gu cheesecakes. So at 3am, when I'm trying and failing to sleep, I'm teased by the thought of persuing a refreshment. The fridge gets opened and I eat until I settle.
Back to the scale, I was now the second heaviest female living under this roof. I had gone feral: staggering around my bedroom like a confused and vicious animal, slapping the walls and howling inside my head.
If I hear one more person tell me that this is the time to "relax" and "let go." I'm going to continue howling until my throat sets itself on fire. Sure, "bollocks to everything, right? Tuck In and Enjoy!" This certainly is not what I need. I'm clearly going through what they call a gluttony crisis or an inclination for excess, a lust for lard, an overwhelming desire to turn into a chunky butterball! Sorry I can't stop.
I'm hoping that when I'm less sour, less biting: I will reside back to a life a with a normal sugar intake and increased bodily movements throughout the day. At the moment, it's 1am and I'm currently laying in bed with an omelette resting on my chest (plate, of course included). Perhaps after this I'll roast up a sticky toffee pud in the oven.
Wait, it gets duller. On Wednesday I am being returned to my isolation room in hospital for another five weeks. This time, I've promised myself to be more creative, vent more and try to listen to music without becoming a quivering emotional wreck. Don't ask. Basically I'm trying to stop mulling around like a de-tuned radio, a little sparky to the touch.
Yesterday, a sultry cloud locked itself into position over the sun. I careened out of the bathtub after my midday slumber, locked eyes with the scales and hopped on. The results, to my absolute disgust, exposed the true reality of eating for three.
The past month has allowed me to feast on all things tantalising that potentially will have me induced into a diabetic coma within the hour. Even sleep brings no respite; I eat 24 hours a day with nightfall being my hunting hour.
In the hospital, if I crawl to the end of my bed, the fridge is a small arm stretch away where my mum keeps a constant supply of Gu cheesecakes. So at 3am, when I'm trying and failing to sleep, I'm teased by the thought of persuing a refreshment. The fridge gets opened and I eat until I settle.
Back to the scale, I was now the second heaviest female living under this roof. I had gone feral: staggering around my bedroom like a confused and vicious animal, slapping the walls and howling inside my head.
If I hear one more person tell me that this is the time to "relax" and "let go." I'm going to continue howling until my throat sets itself on fire. Sure, "bollocks to everything, right? Tuck In and Enjoy!" This certainly is not what I need. I'm clearly going through what they call a gluttony crisis or an inclination for excess, a lust for lard, an overwhelming desire to turn into a chunky butterball! Sorry I can't stop.
I'm hoping that when I'm less sour, less biting: I will reside back to a life a with a normal sugar intake and increased bodily movements throughout the day. At the moment, it's 1am and I'm currently laying in bed with an omelette resting on my chest (plate, of course included). Perhaps after this I'll roast up a sticky toffee pud in the oven.
Wait, it gets duller. On Wednesday I am being returned to my isolation room in hospital for another five weeks. This time, I've promised myself to be more creative, vent more and try to listen to music without becoming a quivering emotional wreck. Don't ask. Basically I'm trying to stop mulling around like a de-tuned radio, a little sparky to the touch.
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