Who cares?
May 15th, 2007 at 12:52 pm (Metaphysical)
I packed lunch and dinner for myself today. It’s the first time I’ve done so in over a month. Maybe two. That was the secret to my good eating at the beginning of the year — taking the time to nurture and care for myself in all kinds of ways, including by preparing and packing my own meals — and yet, I’ve let it all go to the wayside. I don’t want to care for myself anymore and I’m having a little tantrum about it today.
It’s childish and I’ve spend thousands of dollars in therapy exploring this urge, but I still have the hidden fantasy that someday, somehow, someone else will take care of me. I think it comes from having too many siblings and always having to fend for myself, but regardless of where it comes from, there it is. I want my boss, my neighbor, my boyfriend, my dog, my parents, my friends, and my congressman to take care of me.
Maybe, I sometimes think, all I have to do is find the right person, and then I’ll be taken care of for life! Really, doesn’t that sound like someone you’d want to be in a relationship with? Someone to latch onto you and suck the life and energy and money out of you forever and ever amen?
Yeah. Me, too.
Today I am trying to be adult enough to realize that this is not going to happen. That it is up to me. Life goes on. Pack your own damn lunch, Mal.
Lately, I’ve fallen into a trap of self-pity. My boyfriend isn’t around much, and my parents are far away. I have good friends and family members that I love very much but ultimately they are busy taking care of themselves and their dependents. This is what they do because they are actually adults. See? But, I don’t want to be an adult. I want to be a dependent! Waah.
Of course, if one of the ways people show that they care for you (or for yourself, as I mentioned before) is to prepare your food, you can plunk down your pennies and get plenty of that. Unfortunately, I am not made of pennies. At first, I spent extra to have someone make me a nice, organic meal or a big juicy salad. Then, though, my budget balked and I had to get cheaper, quicker substitutes for true nurturance. Hello, McDonald’s drive-thru. Nice to see you again. And again. And yet again.
But not today. Today I very responsibly packaged up healthy leftovers and a salad and here I sit, munching on almonds.
I feel like throwing a tantrum. It’s not fair, I think, that I should have to eat healthy. I feel jealous of anyone — anyone — who can eat cake or ice cream or cookies and not have everyone look sideways at them. I stomp my imaginary little-girl feet and whine. I want to eat cookies. Every day. Every meal. Just because I want to. I also want to fit into cute jeans and knee-high boots and flirty skirts. Everyone else does — why can’t I? I want to look adorable like that wispy blonde girl on her cruiser bike. I want to be a stellar surfer and spend all day riding waves. I want to feel the thrill of a perfect free-throw or 5K or butterfly stroke. I want it all, yes, and I want it without having to work.
As long as I’m being honest, I guess I’ve always felt a bit sorry for myself. I feel it isn’t fair that I should have to diet. Why can’t I just eat whatever I want? Sleep poorly? Neglect to walk farther than the distance from the parking lot to my office? Pay for a gym membership that I never use? Have an extra helping of this or that? Why can’t I sack out in front of the TV or the computer every night? Have the Thai restaurant deliver whenever and wherever I want? Why can’t this be the way I care for myself — by eliminating all traces of effort and pace from my days?
Why shouldn’t I be able to eat pizza and burgers? Actors on TV do. Neighbors in the house next door do. People in the movies and the magazines and the cars in the fast lane do.
By now, a good parent would grab my shoulders and give me a shake. Knock it off, they’d growl. Be a big girl. I AM a big girl. See? That’s the problem. And it’s not fair. And, life isn’t fair. And if I don’t take care of myself, no one will. And that has to be okay for now.
And I packed my lunch today. And I can do this.
Debbi said,
May 15, 2007 at 1:57 pm
Yeah, why shouldn’t I be able to eat pizza? Real pizza with double meat and extra cheese, just the way I used to order it.
Well, I guess that answers the question, right? I used to eat it and look where it got me.
When I start thinking life isn’t fair – and I think that a lot! – I try to look at life from other perspectives. It’s not always either/or, black/white, pizza/salad – it’s, maybe, veggie pizza with whole wheat crust, or salad topped with nut-crusted salmon. Either/or thinking sends me spiraling into the black hole of life’s not fair. Every time.
Kery said,
May 17, 2007 at 12:31 am
Hmm, I would also think “it’s unfair”, and I still do at times, but when it happens, I try to kind of… downplay it, so to say. It’s much pep-talk and pathetic self-convincing, but hey, if it works, why wouldn’t I use it. I tell myself that it’s okay if I can’t have pizza or McDo or cookies, because they’re not food I’m made to eat anyway, and my body isn’t as dumb as I thought it was: it actually knows they’re junk foods, and by gaining on weight, it tries to tell me that I should stop, before he has to resort to harsher means such as diabetes or coronary disease. So maybe it’s not unfair. Maybe it’s actually me being ‘lucky’. Because if I could eat whatever I wanted and not gain one pound, I may very well unknowingly set myself for diseases later on.
Yes, I know, it’s dumb, and there are still days of whine in-between. But whatever works to trick a given mind… Hehe.
La BellaDonna said,
May 17, 2007 at 6:10 am
“Someone to latch onto you and suck the life and energy and money out of you forever and ever amen.”
I had that for a quarter of a century. I called it a “marriage.” It really wasn’t, though, because if it were, there would have been a certain amount of taking care of me involved. See? Everybody gets a turn.
But it didn’t work out that way. So I left. I left because I was a “bitch.” As opposed to leaving because I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life caring for another, unimpaired adult human being, who didn’t care if I lived or died.