The Healthy Binge?

I've mentioned it countless times before, but I'll go ahead and reiterate: I am an addict.  The only thing that changes is what my current addiction is.  Luckily, I've managed to free myself from the most unhealthy versions and am currently stuck in a strange pseudo-binge-eating situation.  I still have this need to be full.  I know it's something rooted in my psychology, but I'm not quite ready to start shelling out cash to have someone help me.  I'm far more stubborn (and cheap) than that.  So I need to beat this thing by myself (and the help of a few good friends.)

So here we go.  Hello, my name is Vanessa, and I binge on fruits and vegetables.  Oh yes.  Those are the strangest words, and yet I find them fluttering around inside my cranium almost constantly.  "Is this really a bad thing?"  "Should we leave it alone so that our addiction doesn't turn to something worse?"  "Are voices in my head really a good thing?"

I wouldn't mind at all if I didn't eat normally the rest of the day.  So by the time I dig in for my carrot/celery/frozen fruit and yoghurt festival of scrumptiousness, I've already consumed the vast majority of my calories for the day.  In a healthy manner.  So my nighttime binges are adding a good 400 calories to that, which is making me gain weight (again.)

I need to go back to my origninal plan of not allowing myself to be addicted to anything, regardless of how healthy it is.  The only question that remains, then, is... how do you break the addiction to addiction?

Two steps forward...

I think we all know how that ends.  One step back.  And I have taken a giant step back.

My life involves tax season for three months out of every year.  Three months of 60 hour weeks.  Three months of irregular eating, sleeping, and exercising.  Three months of almost no time to relax.  It begins to wear you down, gobble you up, spit you out.  To add to it, I'm studying for the hardest part of my exams.  So on my one day per week off, I study.  Almost all day.  To add to that, we recently found out our beloved rat terrier has cancer.  Nasty cancer.  The kind furbabies don't generally recover from.  I'm devastated.  My diet has taken a back seat.  My fitness has taken a back seat.  My time to myself has taken a back seat.

I want to stop feeling guilty about slipping during such trying times, but I can't.  I would like to just be proud of the fact that I haven't started smoking again or drinking too much again.  But I can't.  I hate myself and am generally fed up with the fact that every time I try to get my sh*t in order, life creeps up and whallups me with a two-by-four.  Then puts me in a burlap sack.  Then ties me to the back of its rusty old Ford pickup and drags me down some old, rocky road.  Then abandons me out by some hillbilly shack with a mean-looking dog only haphazardly tied up outside.

I don't have time to cook like I like, and I don't feel like it even if I do.  All I want when I come home to my poor, stitched-up, cancer-riddled dog is to curl up with him and some comfort food and watch something mindless.  I hate myself for that, but there's really nothing I can do about it until I gather up my strength to face the mean-looking dog, knock out the hillbillies, steal their dusty blue Pinto, drive back to town, stop at the lumber yard for a four-by-four, confront life, and kick its ass.