I fell off the wagon yesterday. Actually it's been a gradual slide off the back of the wagon. First one foot dragging, then the other. Soon I was barely hanging on with the tips of my fingers. But on Sunday...I just let go and flopped into the dirt.
I decided that I didn't want to watch what I ate any longer. I had already started back-peddling and over-indulging and double-serving for weeks now. So, it was just a natural progression of fully letting go. And boy did I.
I had two cups of coffee, a cheeseburger, french fries, root beer, six chicken tenders, half an order of buffalo chips, two margaritas, and a big ol' bowl of ice cream.
I didn't listen to my body at all. I just ate..and ate..and ate...everything.
By the time I went to bed last night I was feeling awful. My body was not happy with me..not happy at all, and letting me know about it. As I laid there in bed, feeling miserable and a little like I might throw up, I realized that I can never go back to the way I use to eat. This is a good, although sometimes frustrating (in the way that the abused misses the abuser), thing.
Much like the child that was allowed to stink their finger in the socket, I have learned my lesson. Back on the wagon, front seat, strapped in.