I have been seeing a therapist the last four weeks. We’ve been discussing why I have so many issues with food. Because food is the fuel that keeps us alive, this was the first issue I needed to address with him. For the majority of my life, I have been the type of person who sees food as a hassle – a waste of valuable time – a pain in my ass. I have never enjoyed the action of eating food. Very seldom have I been “excited” to sit down and eat a meal. Many times I would go most the day before realising I had not eaten anything. When my dad passed away in 2013, my issue with food became worse.
Being an addict, I often wonder if being addicted to food would be a nice change of scenery. I find that thought so far out of the realm of possibility though. Maybe not. Who knows.
My unconscious is holding the key to unlock my food issue and I am going to find it. My therapist has helped me understand some important factors that contribute to this. As a child, the majority of memories I have about food were quite terrifying to me. Weather it was the notion that I must clean off my plate before getting up from the dinner table or being forced to eat something I knew I would dislike – as a youngster, these were scary situations for me. Do my foul early memories of food contribute to today’s eating habits? Maybe. Maybe not. It’s all very interesting and I will eventually understand it more in the future.
Oh, and I chose the title because I can’t stand the taste of cooked peas. Nasty squishy bastards.
With my food issue typically being backwards from the typical food issues, does anyone else find eating to be such a burden or am I alone on this one? Any thoughts would be appreciated.
Hope you are all having a wonderful Christmas!
Hope you are all having a great holiday break!
Easily enter to win my free book on Goodreads! (Must be in the USA to be eligible.)
I wanted to write a quick post about what has been going on over the past few months. I haven’t been consistent in posting on my blog….consistent or non-existent? Either way I haven’t posted here in a long while. Here’s what has been going on in my life-
I have stayed sober. Sobriety, or rather, the urge to use drugs has not been a problem. Of course I think about it from time to time still but there hasn’t been an emotional or psychological mind or body reaction to my thoughts. They have all been more of a “look-back” at the past. No stomach-turning roller coaster drops of drug induced fantasies. Nothing like that.
My wife and I have grown a passion and love for reptiles. We have acquired a lot of beautiful ball pythons over the past 6 months and if someone had told me that snakes each have their own personality, I would have told them they are insane. Sure enough, snakes are pure awesomeness. Some are cuddlers while others like to pretend they are a rock. “You can’t see me! I am a rock!” Some people don’t consider “being a rock” as having a personality but I have met people with far less statuesque ability. I don’t want to make this a blog about our pets so I’ll end this with a picture of our snake named Wanda.
Shifting gears a bit, I found myself hesitating on completing my memoir. My father and I started the book almost 9 years ago. We had countless meetings together trying to flesh out each other’s work, coordinating his chapter with mine; which we wrote in separate homes at seperate times by discussing important talking points. It was a large amount of work but at least we were in it together. After my father passed away I felt extremely lost. I felt lost because I knew I would never be able to talk to my father but I also felt lost with the book project. It was so close to completion. I did have our editor’s help and my family members, but it still made me feel empty and alone. The project seemed to lose its meaning in a way. I felt we had built a special bond during his last years here. Maybe realizing that my dad did all that work to never get to see it completed made me feel that pain. I don’t know exactly why it became so difficult to finish. We had so many great discussions about what it would be like to have seen the book completely done, bound, and in our hand.
I finally finished the book. Despite what my false self was yelling in my ear. I knew it was mostly lies and fear. I can’t blame the fear. After all, My memoir don’t paint me as a shining moral hero. I titled the book – A Walk in His Shoes. It released on Amazon and Kindle on December 3.
I will write a more thorough post this weekend detailing more of what has been going on. If anyone is still interested in reading my memoir, you can get it as a hardcopy or as an ebook. If you are wanting to read it but don’t have the funds to purchase the book, let me know and we can work out a trade. Thanks everyone!
Hard copy—> CLICK HERE!
Ebook——-> CLICK HERE!
A Walk in His Shoes
Facebook page—> CLICK HERE!
On the Facebook page, I am giving a free signed copy of the book away on the most recent Facebook post. If you are interested in winning a signed copy of the book, click the Facebook link above. Thanks everyone!
photo courtesy of creepypasta.wikia.com
Last night I had a nightmare. My neck and chest was soaking wet and beads of sweat were running down my forehead. My upper body was ice-cold from being outside the blanket and the sheets underneath me were damp and cold. I woke in a panic, trying to make sense of what was going on. Trying to figure out where I was. I was in my own bed of course but 45 seconds prior I was shooting up heroin with my wife in my drug dealers shabby basement apartment. Paraphernalia strewn all over the bedroom- used syringes covering the top of his rickety nightstand. A puke-green ragged blanket masquerading as a curtain but failing miserably as the sun ripped through the massive hole in the middle. Their were no lightbulbs in the ceiling fixture but that didn’t seem unusual in a place like that. The hole in the blanket allowed the sun to shine a perfect beam of light into the room that lit up a small statue of a unicorn that had huge buck teeth. Like the donkey from Shrek, only not a donkey. The statue was out-of-place and I remember looking at it going “what the f#$k? Why does my drug dealer have a buck tooth unicorn?”
My wife didn’t notice the unicorn but I could tell she was disgusted at all the paraphernalia scattered about. I wanted to get her out of there but when I turned around to walk out, the door had turned into a wall.
I was so upset and angry at myself because I knew it had to be mostly my fault that my wife was now using too. She has never even smoked weed so the fact that she was shooting heroin all the sudden meant that I had persuaded her at some point. Why would I do something so vile? I thought. This must be a bad dream.
Seeing us that way was so vile and disgusting. In a way, I am glad I had that dream. That will never be an option for us in reality and the thought of it makes me nauseous. I wanted to share my dream before I forgot what happened. Thanks for reading.