I’m hungry. I tell myself I shouldn’t be hungry, that I haven’t been hungry for lunch in quite some time. I’m hungry despite the argument.
I have frozen burritos.
They’re a bit of a pain in terms of work. Fruit is easier, but it’s not what I want.
Lie. It’s not what I need. I need more protein in my life, and fruit is lacking. I decide on two. I want one and a half, but they come in whole portions: what’re you going to do? They’re also frozen. And raw. If raw, refried beans are a thing.
All I wanted was lunch, but here I am, “cooking.” My life is hard: I have to flip them at thirty-second intervals, or they don’t thaw well.
After two minutes, they’re ready for the toaster oven. I like my tortillas crisp. The two-step process makes me feel like a real chef.
I’m getting hungrier. I remind myself that I ate breakfast, I had lots of food yesterday, and my energy expenditure has been minimal. My hunger is unmoved – it isn’t logical.
I think it’s a shame we can’t consciously access energy stores. [i]
The toaster dings, but they’re too hot to eat instantly – multiple tongue-burns have driven that home – so I grab a handful (four) of pretzels and make a mental note I’ll forget to add them to the shopping list.
I think about cooling the burritos in the fridge. I’m on a schedule. I’m hungry, but I also want to take a sauna to soothe my aches: it’ll be ready for entry in about ten minutes. I need the burritos done by then. I could eat them in the sauna, I suppose, but that would conflict with the planned meditating.
I don’t consider changing the schedule. I should have planned better, schedule-wise, but I can be rigid once things get rolling.
I hope the electrical fire of last week isn’t a problem.
The fire was not my fault: I simply replace a burned-out light bulb. It’d been absent since I got the sauna eight or so years back. I never needed it, but the spring-cleaning bug is active: fixing up absent lightbulbs seemed appropriate.
In it went, and I flicked the switch. Then, crack! and pop! and sparks, and smoke. Upon investigating, I found the relevant wires had been damaged and taped back up by the previous owner. It would’ve been nice if they’d mentioned that.
The other problem with the burritos, besides the hot, is the lack of dip. I used to like Dijon mustard, but I’ve gone off it. Salsa would be excellent, but I don’t have any that isn’t mango-based. [ii] Chipotle mayo is absent from the fridge. I tried using queso as a dip a few days ago – that was a big mistake. Throwing them out really set me back on my “don’t waste food” resolution.
I’m worried about my bills. Pain is expensive. The sauna and the hot water tank are getting a lot of use. So is my heating pad. But I need help, and there’s an upper limit for medication and marijuana. The nice people at the electric and gas companies will just have to deal.
At least I don’t feel like a crazy person today. More than usual, I mean. It’s the validation. It lifts a weight off the soul. My therapists think my pain is pain. I was starting to worry. I started thinking maybe I am just a hysterical woman with a low pain threshold and a desperate thirst for attention. [iii]
In an, “avoiding all attention” kind of way.
But they believe the test results. They believe me.
The relief is enormous.
It’s a gift. I’m lucky I have people in my life who listen. I’m lucky I have people who hear.
They aren’t the same. The difference explains the mango salsa.
Do you have a good listener in your life?
Are you a good listener? Do you hear?
[i] This is eating disorder thinking. I don’t need to eat because my body carries fat stores: I don’t need to eat because I ate before. The thoughts seem logical to those of us on the inside but I suspect they might not to those not afflicted.
Much is better as I work on my recovery, but my brain still thinks in odd ways as the first choice. Especially when I’m under pressure or in distress. When life is hard, it’s easy to drift back to the familiar. I do know, however, that not much good would come from adding an eating disorder flare-up to my pain problem.
[ii] Mango salsa is gross. I will die on this hill.
[iii] An old accusation. It still burns.