I haven't taken a drink in a while, again, not counting the days, I just know it's been a while. And this does not mean my life is stress free, cuz it never is. In place of liqour though, I've been eating ice cream, and I'm not talking about a spoonful here and there. I like Blue Bell ice cream and for the last two weeks I've probably had four or five half gallon tubs of it per week. I'm not sure why I'm eating that much of it, it obviously does not alter my mood nor make everything go away. After realizing the first week just how many calories I was actually consuming, I did two things. I run around the neighborhood and I've started up riding the (stationary) bike again. I am just not in the mood, nor do I have the willpower to do more than an hour a day. I can assure you doing this on a daily basis does not begin to cover ice cream calories. To get a little of extra walk time, when I go some place I park as far away from the entrance as I reasonably can. Cuz, like, giving up the ice cream is not an option. I just have an addictive personality I guess, I'm holding on to the fkn ice cream as if it were my vodka...
Last week, maybe five days ago, I started throwing up after every ice cream infraction. This somewhat helps. Along, with being an alcoholic I have an obsession with my weight. I normally don't do anything special about it, I just check it once or twice a week and try to keep it at 124 or below. I've come to accept that I'll never be 118 (freshman weight) again. Sadly though, my body has betrayed me...even though the scale may say 124, my body is not what it was in my pre-Scott days. I guess this is what I can expect in my old(er) age. As if ice cream weren't bad enough, the last three days whenever I go on an errand I drive thru Whataburger for a large chocolate shake. That is an additional 1200 calories, just that alone. But it's like I can't stop myself.
So last night, Gerry is checking out the ice maker and he notices the ice cream. He asks what happened to the other flavor we had, I told him it was gone. I eat these tubs before he realizes they're even there. He asks if I ate the whole thing, I replied not all at once (that much is true). He goes on to tell me that that is a lot of freaken ice cream (No Shit!) If only he knew just how much more I've actually eaten.
I told him I'm eating ice cream since I can't drink. Once he heard me say 'life is hard', he flips out (as they all do). He ends the rant by saying, "Great, my future consists of dealing with an alcoholic or a fat ass. How nice." Stupid mother-fucker...This does not help my mood. It's only added to my stress and kicked my anxiety up a notch, or three. I am sure I will drink before day's end.
I think I need Scott. At least HE made my life OK.