Just Long Enough
To realize I'm not keeping to my promise to myself to write on this blog everyday. But while David Goggins wouldn't give me any excuses, I'm giving myself a few. Like how I'm already working my ass off at this cleansing stuff. It's quite draining.
Right now, I'm in the doldrums. The nadir of the experience – lifeless, listless, exhausted, with the bile flowing through me and projectile vomiting its way onto others, namely, my husband.
I feel so deprived. I'm in a funk. Just walking around Menards, looking at their food section like a visitor from another planet. Kind bars. Milk in jugs, by the gallon. Something orange that looks like orange juice, but which couldn't be further from the hand-squeezed glass I prepared for myself today. I remember eating this stuff. Some of it is close to food. Most of it not.
Then in our local co-op, that's where it gets hard. The specialty, pricey foods my husband is loading into the cart, one after another – the types of items I would have loved to have purchased, had I not had to manage both our needs month to month. Pay for all of our groceries, and then some.
Whatever my husband wants, though – he just gets. Takes it from the joint account, no problem. While I'm trying my best to be fair and pay for my special supplements and fancy diet items. Not him. He wants a $400 pair of boots – no problem, out the joint account it comes. His friend is heading to Colorado, and my husband wants $700 worth of weed products that last a few months? No problem, just take it from the joint account. And then wonder why I get upset. If I need/want something special, I fucking pay for it, out of my own account. If I couldn't afford it, I would talk to my husband about it first. Ask. But not him. He just does it, and expects me to deal with it.
He's changing, I know he is, but that's the kind of resentment and putrid bile that's pouring out of me like some ecological disaster of a river that's been destroyed by a factory pouring its toxic biohazard waste into for years and years. That's the kind of shit I've had stored in me for years, in little nooks and crannies. Cordoned off, stored up in tight little boxes like tidy tupperware in the fridge. Toxins in my fat. Anger in my gallbladder. Resentment in my spleen. Frustration in my gut. Exhaustion soaking up my adrenals and thyroid. Sadness weighing down my heart. And obsession needling my brain.
It's a shitty place to be, this Day 19 of my cleanse. It should get better sometime, but for now, it's the pits. Physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. Just shitty. My being feels like toxic sludge, and nothing seems exciting, except my opportunity to now finally watch an episode of 'Better Call Saul.' It's like the one nourishing thing I can take in right now. Food will evade me for a while yet. At least 8, 9 more days. Thanksgiving won't be Thanksgiving, in the traditional sense. But the Thanks part I can still do.
And despite my shitty state, I am thankful. If that's all I can manage to think or say right now, Thank you, Jesus, for giving me another day, and for helping me through this journey to health and wholeness. Thank you for providing me with your love, and the resources I need to get well. Someday I will get there, but for now, I'm hanging onto faith. Thank you, God. Amen.