Photo courtesy of Jon Pitts-Wiley

I'm an emotional eater.

As I sit here writing this, part of me wonders what purpose is served by telling you the above, but as I near the end of this sentence, it serves the purpose of giving some direction to the mood I'm in right now. We have to have our drafts in on Thursdays around these parts and, by the time you read this on Monday, my mood will probably have changed but the Monday that you're in right now matters less than the Thursday on which I write this. I've mulled all week on what to write; what yarn I should spin for the people good enough to take a gander at what it is I think about daily. But today, the today I'm in, I have neither the energy nor the patience to come up with something clever; something that has deft turns of phrase or some redemptive call back within. Today, the today I'm in, is one in which I scramble to keep things together; it's one in which I feel cared about but under-appreciated; one in which I seem to be about ten hands short of what I need to get things done; one in which I feel overwhelmed and don't really give a damn about being thoughtful. So I'm just going to talk.

It would be disgustingly smug to say I'm alone in the world. It's just not true, but that doesn't stop the feeling of loneliness or isolation. It's not a comfort when you're trying to do all the right things and just can't seem to break even, when the constant refrain in your head is to sigh and think: It's always something.

I struggle with feelings of petty jealousy. I'm not sure if other dads or dads-to-be feel or have felt this way, but I do. Frankly, whether they do or not is of little relevance because today, in the today I'm in, that's the reality. I'm jealous of my pregnant wife. I envy her. We both have hard jobs, but it seems like the only one who is allowed to be tired or run down is her. When people ask about how she's doing, they seem to be really asking. When I'm asked, I think the question is genuine, but juxtaposed against a pregnant woman, I can't help but only muster an "I'm hanging in there." Is some of this a product of masculine pride or some other such talking point to be discussed ad nauseum? Probably, but there's also something to be said for instilling confidence and trying to project from a place of strength.

Why am I being so forthright now? Because I'm obligated to be truthful to you about life on the day that I write. And this is the truth of the today that I'm living in.
The pressure is coming down on me and I'm getting fatter as a result.

Do you know what you get when you join an explosive temper with good home-training? You get a guy who spends a good deal of time trying to get that angry/anxious feeling off his chest in a way that doesn't involve acting out. You get a person afraid to open up because he's not really sure what would happen. You get a person who can't vent the pressure properly until it forces its way out in cruel soundbites. Too much brains and not enough heart to inflict this energy on another person. As I write, I'm suddenly reminded of Frankenstein:

I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend

There's no punching or shooting or stabbing coming. A "go f*ck yourself" isn't really in the cards either. So how do I stand up? See, the pressure makes me cagey; the pressure makes me feel as though I need to defend myself. And despite the help and blessings and efforts of friends, when it gets down to the nitty gritty, I feel I'm the only one left to defend myself. Is that true? Nope. Is that how it feels? Absolutely. And defense is really a simple thing: I want to be left alone for a little while.

But being left alone isn't in the cards. There's too much to do. Too much that I signed on for, unwittingly or not. Instead of Left Alone Time there's Pressure Time. What Are You Going to Do About This Time. There Isn't Enough Money Or Time Time. So I eat. I waste money on food that will surely shorten my life. I don't treat myself to it; I medicate myself with it. Why, I sometimes wonder, can't my indulgence be exercise, or, at least, food that will not kill me? In certain moments, I'm glad that it's not something like drugs or alcohol, but that's more a function of being a control freak than thinking they're intrinsically bad. I like drinking as a social activity and while I don't need it to be social, I can say I like how it makes me feel; I do wish I could feel like that all the time without needing to drink to do it. Because of this, because I enjoy a good beverage, I do it infrequently. But eating is another matter entirely. It's a delicious saboteur; it satisfies a necessary function of life while undermining it. Indulging in this or that, the food provides a temporary defense against unanswered slight, frustration, and all the internal injuries that build during the day. Food doesn't ask anything of you, not initially anyway.

I know better; eating poorly does not pay dividends and, in general, it's dicey to tie your emotional well-being into a singular activity. But, a lot of the time, sitting in a parking lot eating while the radio drones at me ... a lot of the time that seems like all I have. That's all my time. So I eat.

And on the today-like days, it is but my best defense.

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