“Just one more” is a lie I tell myself. In the moment that I say it, I believe myself. Saying it feels good. It feels true. Just one more chip, cookie, order of French fries, soda, day. “Last day of eating like this.” I promise myself. I’m a liar and I go to bed hating myself, but hating is painful… so I tell myself “tomorrow will be different…” that thought feels better. Then I wake up and cave at the first temptation.
Why don’t I want to journal? Because I’m full of crap and can’t trust anything I say. Why don’t I want to confront my thoughts? Because they’re full of B.S. that I keep telling myself to placate my anger at myself for being the way I am. There is no other relationship in my life that I would treat the way I do the relationship with myself. I could show up better for my other relationships, but none involve this degree of mistreatment.
I don’t even want to say “tomorrow will be different,” because I feel disappointed in myself before tomorrow even comes.
The Difference A Year Can Make 