I legit think God has a sense of humor.
I was going to write on something COMPLETELY different (or I was trying to, at least), but I kept coming back to this. It’s hard. I didn’t want to write this post. But I’ve been sitting on my laurels with this for quite some time, and God is finally pushing it out of me, one blog post at a time. (I’m actually
working procrastinating on an in-depth post on this topic. Ugh. Why, Jesus?!?). Anyway, here ya go. *deep breaths*
I am a comfort-seeker. I like safe, I like secure, I like control. When I can’t be a fixer or a helper, I become a numb-er: numbing myself from whatever I can’t fix until it’s not a problem anymore.
My biggest source of comfort isn’t scripture or worship music or anything Jesus-y.
I’ve been a food addict (my personal opinion, I’ve never been officially diagnosed) since childhood. I’m also an emotional (cry-baby according to my family) person, and when my emotions overwhelm me? I eat.
I would sneak food from the kitchen when I was upset with my grandmother, or eat leftovers from dinner off the stove.
At 25, I tiptoe into the kitchen still for late-night snacks, for fear of waking my mom up.
I celebrate victories with cake or ice cream or my favorite meal.
I calm my anxious nerves through baking.
I relieve stress by cooking.
I eat snacks when I’m bored.
I numb myself with candy and sweets.
I’m an emotional eater, bored eater, anxious eater.
Food is my greatest comforter. When I’m eating something I love, I feel safe and peaceful.
This is not how food is supposed to work, I’ve learned.
I comfort myself with food, and have done so for at least 20 of my 25 years.
Real talk: currently eating butter bread, because it sounded good and I have felt crappy all day.
I don’t run to Jesus for comfort. I run to food.
And I don’t know how to run elsewhere for it. Because Jesus doesn’t make me feel full and secure quite like cake.
–curls up in corner because vulnerability is hard–