I find myself sitting on a room full of chattering people.
It is crowded , and yet I am alone.
How ironic–I am here because I am in recovery.
I am here because I am alive.
And the food is bountiful.
I hesitate to choose.
It is early–earlier than I normally eat.
I see croissants, muffins, breakfast sandwiches, fruit, cereal.
I gravitate towards the pineapple and melon slices.
This is where I falter.
If I eat something I am uncomfortable with, I will be uncomfortable.
If I eat now, I might get hungry later; before lunch.
The thought crosses my mind to find support, to talk about what I’m going through.
Someone in this room might understand.
Here of all places.
I’m not even hungry, but I know I will be.
This is something I live with every day.
It’s harder when I’m alone.
When I’m out of my routine.
Lunch is coming up.
What can I take away from this struggle?
That I fear discomfort.
That I crave accountability. Approval.
Lunch, I am coming for you.
I am going to sit with my feelings and emotions.
This is something I have recently discovered.
That I feel too much.
That I block out my emotions.
That I prefer to feel numb sometimes.
But here, in this city that is so alive.
This city that I love.
I am here.
I can do this.
I will do this.
I think I have a long way to go.