He is not happy about being stuck in the house most of the time while I’m in virtual training.
He is doing his best to keep headphones on if he watches Youtube in the living room while I’m in training.
He has put up with various forms of food crazy and body image issues from me for the 23 years that we’ve been together and has loved me unconditionally, no matter what I was eating or how fat I got.
I can’t control what he chooses to eat, whether it’s something I choose not to eat for health reasons or because I’m restricting calories for weight loss. He is more or less a normal eater, who can eat foods that are binge triggers for me and stop.
He’s been extremely supportive of me during years of misery at work and through the process of getting this job.
HOWEVER----yesterday I got extremely pissed and resentful.
For right now, due to my personal feeling that dairy and gluten are not good for my internal well-being, I’m not ingesting those foods. In other words, I can’t (or choose) not to eat a delicious garlic mushroom quesadilla from El Toro. I happen to LOVE their fucking quesadillas. It’s a titillation of every food sense and addiction I have, aside from sugar.
Generally I don’t mind getting him food that I choose not to eat myself, including pizza from Mozzeria, or making linguini with pesto. (Mind you, I think these are all bad for him, including contributing to his osteo because one thing gluten does is leech nutrients from the body.)
Last night it got to me, especially because I’d got a little long between my 3pm snack and dinner, due to going to the Monday night OA meeting. I walked down the hill, went to the corner store for my sparkling water and then to the tacqueria…and it got to me. I felt depressed, deprived, started bargaining for what I MIGHT be able to get for myself, never mind that I have a fabulous array of nutrient dense protein, fruit and veggies that I can eat with impunity. It just pissed me off that he couldn’t get his own damn quesadilla. ESPECIALLY because he’d been sort of annoying me by watching some incredibly stupid (to me) web show that is clearly aimed at teenagers.
I really feel like he could have stayed on headphones longer or gone in the bedroom or something. He didn’t do it while I was in training, but he didn’t stop when I was out. He also sort of implies that I’m taking time away from him when I go to OA or yoga class or for an evening shopping/walk. Except he’s not even supposed to be home.
In other words, I feel like his being home with a broken arm is encroaching on my personal time and privacy.
Just to compound the aggro, I had specifically told him to watch Midsommer Murders (the same episodes he watches over and over and over, so I know who did it and why the minute the episode starts) while I was at the meeting, and it would be almost done by the time I got back.
Instead he waited until I got home, so I either had to sit through the whole thing or go into the other room.
Keeping in mind, with my current schedule, I’m basically going CLUNK by 10P.
I’m doing my best to acknowledge my part in this. He probably does feel deprived by my schedule and my need for these outside supports. He was willing to have me going to therapy for an eating disorder, but in spite of his own 20+ years of sobriety, he might not see OA as the best option for me.
I cannot control or judge (LOL) what anyone else eats. (I am doing well at getting him to drink green smoothies and he’s now doing some of the bone broth.)
I can only take my own inventory and work my own program, such as it is.
I think part of the problem is just going stir crazy from at-home training and possible anxiety about the fact that my “honeymoon” is going to be over soon and I will actually have to go do the job, and I’m terrified of screwing up, especially if the food goes off the rails.
I’m not counting and announcing for ass-pats but for accountability. I have a disease of concealment and if I stop counting and announcing, it’s going to give me a place to hide when/if I slip/splurge/binge.
I’m still trying to let go of my image of myself as a screw-up, but I’m convinced sugar does make me stupid, and there’s a dumpster dive waiting for me, followed by a massive screw-up.
So that fear is welling up and making me irritable and more likely to take umbrage at my quesadilla-eating husband.