I'm scared of food.
Oh, I don't mean that I'm terrified that I'm going to get cornered in a dark alley and accosted by a pack of wild bagels. I don't wake up
in a cold sweat worried that there's a German chocolate cake beneath my bed waiting for an opportune time to pounce.
I'm just afraid of the power food has on me. Even the idea of food messes with my mind at times.
In the past, there've been many reasons for my overeating, and very few of them had anything to do with hunger or the need to fuel my body.
I ate because I was stressed.
Because I was bored.
Because it had become a habit, just something that was a part of who I was.
Because it made me happy... or at least that's what I told myself. When I look at photographs of me at my worst, I question the idea that
a true transfer of happiness was ever part of the equation.
Something inside me told me it would make feel better even though every rational part of me knew it would only make me feel worse.
I don't trip up daily like I once did, but I still stumble enough to give me pause, still fear dark clouds even though I keep a mostly
sunny outlook on this journey.
But I like to think that it's turned into a kind of healthy fear, like being afraid to gun it through an intersection in front of
a speeding train or touching an electric wire to see if the juice is turned on.
I'm scared of food, and I’m afraid I'll always be afraid.
However, I can live with being afraid easier than I can live being the way I was.