Confessions of A Food Addict (Do you want fries with that?)

So, yes, it is true, I obsess about food.  More than most, I presume.  Usually, I have a vague uncertainty of what I crave.  And I plow through that foggy, marsh-mellow-yellow-brain-custard like I farmed it, with no consideration to whether my stomach is hungry.  I say ‘farmed’ because my food addiction is a mental harvest.  Feeding hungry is incidental actually.  

I have made lunchtime my prayer and gluttony my religion.  I walk like a ritual into the temple that is my restaurant of choice and sacrifice my health on that epicurean altar.  What I find difficult to swallow is that although binges are a mental carnage, the mind is absent for its manufactured freneticness.  Odd that it should use me as its handy lackey.  It is almost as if the only way to shut up the brain is to plug up its pie-hole.  

Every bite is more than I can chew: never has my mind's wants been so separated from my body's needs at my hands.  Clearly, I take sides.  And, if I could feel it, never has my body wanted to be so divorced from the absurdities of my mental hunger.  They manifest themselves in the funny-mirror that now inhabits my person like a counterfeit imposter; a caricature of my former self.  If I am what I eat, I have effectively become my own criminal and warden. 

I am choosing to regain control because I realize that I need to mind my mind as I were.  As Eckhart says, it is a knowing of which the mind knows nothing.  And that’s something.