My body weight is like a sine wave. It always has been.
But, this is not something I could ever control. Not subconsciously. I never felt like.
At the root of it, was one thing I never noticed. Craving.
It usually starts small. A flicker.
I’m sitting. Maybe working. Maybe not. Maybe just existing—you know, in that weird suspended space where nothing is quite happening and everything is happening in my head all at once.
And then.
A thought.
Food.
Not I’m hungry. Just—food.
Specifically something. Or maybe not.
Chocolate. Chips. Ice cream, straight from the 3L tub.
Cookies. Cake. Something.
It just appears.
Like a suggestion, but louder.
Sometimes it feels like a memory.
Like the food is remembering me before I even think of it.
And then it begins.
That thing. That familiar thing.
Hyperfocus.
This laser beam of attention that could solve climate change if it cared, but it doesn’t. It only wants one thing.
And my body?
It responds immediately.
I’m not hungry. But suddenly I can feel my legs get light. Like I need to stand. Like movement is inevitable.
I try to ignore it.
I say, “You just ate.”
I say, “You’re not hungry.”
I say, “This is just a thought.”
But the thought is sticky.
Velcroed to the inside of my head.
It’s a craving, but not really about food.
It’s like my brain wants a fix.
And now the restlessness kicks in.
I open the cupboard. I close it.
I open the fridge. I close it.
I tell myself: walk away.
I don’t.
I scroll. I distract. I try to work.
But the loop has started.
It’s building now. Faster.
I drink water. Make coffee. Maybe it’ll go away.
I tell myself: this is just transient.
It helps for five minutes. Maybe ten.
But then I see it.
Or think of it again.
That food.
That texture. That dopamine promise.
And suddenly I’m back.
Now I’m in the kitchen. Or at Tesco.
It’s not even about wanting it anymore.
It’s about stopping the loop.
The only way to stop the noise is to eat the thing.
I eat it.
It feels meditative.
Sometimes it feels like I’m watching myself from the ceiling.
I chew. Slowly.
I swallow. I breathe.
I don’t stop until the package is empty.
28g or 3L. It doesn’t matter.
I just need.
And then—for a moment—it works.
The craving stops.
The noise dies down.
The knot uncoils.
There’s quiet.
But the quiet doesn’t last.
Then comes the guilt.
Like a weighted blanket, it falls over everything.
Compressing.
Why did I do that?
You were doing so well.
You promised. Again.
You failed. Again.
I start calculating how to undo it.
How many calories?
How long a walk will cancel it out?
Do I skip dinner now?
Do I restrict tomorrow?
Sometimes I don’t even want to move. I just sit in the heaviness.
It’s not the food that feels heavy. It’s the shame.
I try to name it.
I try to journal.
I try to forgive myself.
But in those moments, it’s like the inner critic has a megaphone and my compassion is whispering through a closed window.
And then, something switches.
I stand up.
I go back to the kitchen.
I eat.
After that, I wear clothes.
I check myself in the mirror a few times.
I find my shoes and socks.
I go for a walk.
Not because I hate myself.
But because walking is the only way I know to come back to myself.
I let my feet move.
I let the breeze touch my face.
I feel the guilt start to melt into something softer.
The thoughts settle. The critic gets tired.
And somewhere along that path—somewhere between guilt and pavement—I remember:
This isn’t about food.
It never was.
This is about overwhelm. About the weight of thought.
About a brain that won’t stop buzzing.
About needing something now because later feels like a foreign concept.
About chasing comfort in the only place I ever learned to find it.
And it hits me.
I’m not bad.
I’m not weak.
I’m not broken.
I’m just trying to regulate.
In a world that never taught me how.
In a body, 183 lbs, that’s always hungry—not for food, but for relief.
Some day I catch the craving at the thought.
Most other days I ride it all the way to the bottom.
But lately—
Lately I notice the middle more.
The pause.
The choice.
The moment of awareness that says,
“You’ve been here before.”
And that matters.
Even when I still eat the thing.
Even when I still walk it off afterward.
Because now I know the loop.
And knowing the loop means one day—maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow—
But one day,
I might choose something else entirely.
Not because I have to.
But because I can.
