Home.
A comforting place to be.
For me?
A place where I can't control what I eat.
Where anxiety grows and encompasses all.
Where my mind tries to determine if I can eat anything at all.
Perfect.
This meal isn't perfect, that meal isn't perfect, can I eat any of it?
This is wrong, so horribly wrong.  Too many carbs, unsaturated fats.
No junk food, no pizza, no desserts, none of that.
But why?
Why does my mind insist all of it's bad.
As though avoiding cake should make me ecstatically glad.
As though proving my control makes me a better person?
Better person?
All it makes me is mad.
Yet these thoughts don't stop.
Even though they're not true.
If I can't succeed at this,
then at least I have food.
But wait!
An accomplishment, that it is not
Because when you get good at it your brain starts to rot
If that isn't the answer, then tell me what is?
See, that's the problem.
There isn't.
Life has no right or wrong, each decision is one decision.
Extremes are not good.
Restriction is not an accomplishment.
Control is not necessary.
Then why do I crave it?
I crave rules, regulations, please tell me what to do.
I want to be perfect.
And as long as I desire this,
the real me,
whoever that is
wherever she is,
to her prison she is doomed.