I want to eat. I think I’m starving.

I know it’s the emptiness I’m trying to feed… the unmet expectations… why do I do that to myself? Hoping and expecting often leads to disappointment. I can only change myself.

I’m struggling and uncomfortable today. Not depressed… not miserable… it’s not a bad day. But I want to eat, and I’m trying to live with the emptiness, instead. Comfort food is an illusion.

I’m surprised when some readers of my blog assume that I am fucked up and that my life is a miserable wreck. I don’t think that’s true, at least, not from my perspective. Do I come off that way?

Am I delusional to think that we all have our shit to wade through, but some of us choose to numb ourselves as we go, therefore painting a picture of happy, carefree lives? I believe feeling it is the preferred way to go.

Acknowledging pain does not mean I’m wallowing in it. It’s a part of my process. I write about it. I allow it to be. I look at it. I try, usually unsuccessfully, to figure it out. I feel it. I agonize over it. And, most importantly, I remember that it passes. It is only a feeling; it is not me. I am not defined by my suffering.

And today, I anticipate that when the sun goes down, I will feel better that I allowed the pain to exist, instead of pushing it down inside with chocolate and trying to ignore it. Otherwise, I end up wearing it forever on my thighs as a constant reminder.

It’s a balloon, rising up, taking center stage, screaming, “Look at me!” I look. I let it go. It eventually vanishes into the atmosphere, along with my rash.