Using Myself As A Dustbin

Today is the first day I can remember not feeling hungry for years.  Yes, I ate a piece of cake for breakfast, because it was there.  I should point out that I don’t usually eat cake for breakfast.  I didn’t really want it: like I say, I surprised myself by not being hungry.  But I knew it was delicious, wouldn’t keep forever and was quick.  I was in a bit of a hurry because it’s group therapy on Monday mornings and I would be travelling and tied up until lunch time and thought I couldn’t last that long.  So far so fairly normal:  I ate in anticipation.  I don’t like to pass up an opportunity to stoke up for later…

I eat in case I will be hungry.  As though I am living in times of scarcity, when nothing could be further from the truth.  I eat because I have something unpleasant to do.  I eat because I have just done something unpleasant.  I eat because I am nervous.  Or sad.  Or cross.  Or bored.

What with one thing and another, I eat all the time.  It’s mad.

I take a misplaced pride in having essentially zero waste in this house when it comes to food.  Obviously, I should not be using myself as a dustbin.


PS  This was written some months ago and found in my drafts.  I wish I could say that since that day the weight has fallen off me.  Sadly, no.  And it is surprising actually, because for a couple of months I have been working full time, and not eating at all between meals, and only having salad for lunch.  So you would think… but no.


And as for the image: it doesn’t really match the theme of guzzling rubbish, I know.

In fact this was a photo taken in a swanky hotel.  And not any old swanky hotel, but the Corinthia, the very one where my ex lived for three and a half months, telling me that his company was paying.  During the financial disclosure of our divorce, I saw that he had been spending £60 per day on breakfast in his room (for one?), and the rooms cost (I’ve just checked) between £534 and (I kid you not, and this is for a penthouse, but it still only has one bed) £5994 per night.  I don’t know what he paid, but it would be unlike him to get the cheapest room.  I also saw in the financial disclosure that the company was not paying.  And even if it had: I’d learned that the company was being financed behind my back by…. ME, or should I say, our joint savings.

So when I was meeting one of my new friends who was up in London for the day, I scoured the websites that tell you of special offers, and there was a fixed price menu at the Corinthia – three courses and a glass of bubbly for £25.  Bargain!  I didn’t want to set foot in the place, the thought brought me out in hives.  But my friend, met through a divorce support website, and aware of the significance, thought it would be a good idea.  And I’m glad we went.  The photo is of my starter, and very nice it was, too.  But I wouldn’t want to live there.



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Florence Feynman

I am a middle aged, middle class woman, thinking.

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