In the grand scheme of things – and is that ever a good way to begin a post? – there are problems, and there are problems.
I have no italicized problems. Let’s be perfectly honest here, I live a pretty charmed life, at least as far as I can see. I might get by with few luxuries, but I have a job, a family, a few friends, and several people I truly care about and who truly care about me. I have faults, but I also have talents. I have character flaws, but I am also, at times, engaging and funny and profound. Sometimes I am great conversation, while other times I am kind of a bitch to be around.
I get high, and I get low. I feel each emotion with a certain sense of meaning. But I don’t experience either extremely enough to label myself with any form of manic depression.
Nothing too crazy there, right?
Honestly, it’s hard for me to take my problems all that seriously. Even when I was nearing 400 pounds and stuck in a small town on the edge of the world, I could never really get down on myself. These things that trigger my emotions are trivial to everyone but me, so how can I really put any weight behind them?
That said, I see a problem that does bear some weight with me, though I am not quite ready to italicize it yet. It sort of hit me today that this could be a real problem for a long time if I don’t correct it soon.
I am a binger. When I want, I can eat and eat and eat with no regard for my physical feelings or well-being. When I am done eating, I want more food. When I can’t find any more food, I wonder how long it will be before I can eat again. And I take almost no joy in these binges.
I can roll through twenty dollars' worth of fast food if I lose track of my order. I can eat an entire family-sized lasagna in 20 minutes. If I dedicated myself to the sport, I could become a champion competitive eater.