My family just held an Intervention. And I was the recipient.
They are "concerned about me." My stress is "obviously way too high." My eating habits "are compulsive" and I apparently "shove food down my throat in an effort to comfort myself."
When I walked through the front door tonight, my husband asked me what was wrong. I told him about the Intervention. He became angry. Apparently, I "listen to my family but I don't listen to him." And he's angry because I digested all that they said to me, all that they are afraid will happen to me.
I've been telling him for about a month that I can feel myself dying. I work. I commute. I eat. I sleep. I do a radio program once a week if I have the energy. And that's it. Certainly not the life I ever envisioned, nor one that I want, really.
I thought that moving to a more affordable city would help. But that even seems like an impossibility now that my parents live in town and are the happiest that I have ever seen them. I really, really don't want to change that.
I realized years ago that I am much better at helping other people reach their goals...than I am at helping myself do the same. And in many ways, I've seen that as my purpose in life. So, perhaps my path in life is to do just that. And to be satisfied by just that.
If only I could stop shoveling food into my mouth. If only I could find the energy and motivation to jump on that treadmill. If only I could relax and not worry so much. If only I could look into the future and feel confident that I was able to fix things in a way that worked as well for my husband as it did for me.
In the end, I'm grateful for the Intervention because I wasn't aware of my Conspicuous Mass Consumption.
Knowledge is good...right?