Less is More
I was at a bar once (true story), with a Dutch couchsurfer. I remember disliking him, I was jealous of him for some reason but I can’t even remember why. There was someone else there but I couldn’t say who to save my life.
This guy had a thing, and his thing was, he told me, that he never ate sugar. Avoided it altogether. I didn’t find it all that special, until he started explaining about all the things they put sugar in. He even grabbed my bottle of orange juice, which I found extremely arrogant and mildly insulting.
Even though I still think of him as a dweeb, I’ve recently decided to cut down on sugar. Not because I feel like it’s affecting my health, but because I’m just growing sick of it.
Sugar is fucking everywhere. In everything I drink and eat. I never really cook so end up depending on the companies that do it for me, and frankly they can’t be trusted. In the meat, in the bread, and everything in between, they throw sugar or some variant of it. And on top of that, I used to come home from the night shop with my backpack full of it.
I feel perfectly healthy. I’m not fat, in fact I need to gain some weight. But thing is, my thing is, I’m starting to become seriously disgusted with myself. It’s slowly dawning on me that not only do I have bad eating habits, but they are the eating habits of people who die of obesity while I stand at their grave, all high and mighty, “Shoulda stuck to your diet, sucker.”
A doctor recently told me I am “In exceptionally good condition” so that’s not my motivation. I’m just… tired of eating filth. Not just regular food with filth inside it, but the filth itself, wrapped in shiny papers with sugar and salt in all possible combinations, with an “I don’t give a fuck” attitude just because I can while others can not.
It comes with a combination of things, matters that I feel like I should start fixing, lest I nauseate others the way I have been, myself. For myself if not for them.
I didn’t dream this up overnight- it’s growing inside me and bothering me more and more, on increasingly different subjects.
I’m not going down the same road as that Dutch guy, he and his pretentious attitude can go fuck themselves. I still eat what I want, but I’m grossly cutting down on the junk food in between. I’ve been at this for a week or two and while it was a bit confusing at first to leave the night shop with nothing but pizza, I feel like I’ve done a good thing and intend to keep it up- give or take a few exceptions.
I was a block away from my old house today so I decided to pay it a visit. It’s a tiny, white 3-room house in a tiny dead-end street and for a few years, it was mine. It was my home, and for too long a time, it was my prison.
I had some fantastic times there, but for some reason, possibly my mindset today, I got an eerily negative vibe from the place. I was forcibly reminded of the things I run away from nowadays. What a dark, claustrophobic cell my street seemed. How the walls leaned over me when I managed to force myself out the door. My mind- my refuge, attacking me.
I see those two years as a series of small hopes and thoughts, those little things to grasp onto, that you fear won’t hold and eventually don’t. Hoping it’ll get better when I get home from Ireland. Reminding myself that the breakup was my own choice. All things that took me through another week, pain heavily numbed by computer games, at least until I quit those, too.
In the end, it was the little hope that things would get better by April, when I was going to Scotland with my friends, and the gamble that they would understand if I’d say they couldn’t let me go home by myself safely.
It was my last hope because it turned out to be grounded. Things did get better by then, in many ways, and slowly but steadily I recovered, all by myself but, I guess, not alone. It were the other people, and I apologize for it, that I latched onto and pulled myself up on.
I wasn’t allowed to think back on it much the last year or so. She understood but hearing about my exes and how the breakup hurt, soon made her ears bleed and I kept it to myself. I guess it’s no wonder it comes flooding back with a trigger like this.
If the multiverse theory (read a book) turns out to be true, I’ll know that this must be the one that turned out in my favor, the most. I don’t think I’d be around in many of the others, and very few with a smile on my face.
It’s funny how something so physical jerked me back so it, so easily. Without feeling the panic or grief, I saw how my mind decided to remember things objectively: Grey and looming, with every brick in every wall whispering how easy the way out must be. I didn’t listen, never did, but grew more and more afraid of myself, of the part of me that might.
I’ve been thinking of moving out and living by myself again. I miss having my own place, a piece of the world that belongs to me. Now I’m not so sure anymore. Not that I think I’ll end up like that again- I am a completely different person now. But… One never knows.
This whole page has no point. I’m putting it up anyway.