I am so screwed.
On Sunday morning, during meditation, the voice in my head, THAT voice in my head, suggested in a strong tone that I needed to start a minimum three-day green drink fast.
Shit. You’ve gotta be joking.
I knew the voice who was doing the talking and it’s not a prankster.
Part of being intuitive is recognizing the different voices in your head. It was not my Muse, the bossy pants who writes, nor was it the tender-hearted poet. I’m still getting them all straight.
Some would call it my imagination—or even mental illness I suppose. But I love them all as they come to the forefront of my mind and until one of them commands me to rob a Seven-Eleven—I trust them.
This was the wiser, more tuned in presence that resides somewhere close by—always guiding me. An expert at the spiritual heavy lifting that is required in order to keep me on my path. It was that same voice that suggested I could be happier, that maybe I needed to leave my husband back in ’84—it was also the voice that told me I’d live after the devastating loss of my store.
It also guided me toward writing.
It is the steady voice that takes the bull out of bullshit and turns things around. It has steered me right so many times. Too many to mention. So I listen.
But they know who they’re dealing with when they make their suggestions so naturally I struck up a negotiation. It’s what I do. It’s my superpower I suppose. I never take anything at face value, and I most certainly never take NO for an answer. I really should work for the U.N. or the State Department.
The voice said a green drink fast meaning NO food, but first things first—No coffee?
No way.
Not gonna happen.
A compromise? I MUST have my coffee! I yelled in my head. I didn’t hear any argument so I took that as a yes.
Negotiations complete. Now I’m happy to do the fucking fast.
I am SO accommodating. And enlightened. Are you getting that?
Deep down I knew why the fast had been suggested.
Because Isis makes me eat.
Not terrorism as a whole, and not even Al-Qaeda
It is Isis.
Last week was the worst. Isis threw me into an epic food-binging blur.
It made me reach for the wine on a weeknight. We try not to imbibe on school nights, you know, so we can feel disciplined.
All bets were off. As the coverage of the attacks in France escalated, instead of curling into the fetal position and crying I dove into the Triscuits. Fucking Triscuits and cheese! Like, crack cocaine. And wine. Did I mention the red wine?
Also…last weekend…my husband’s ex-wife killed a man.
Yep.
As if the energy wasn’t batshit crazy enough, we heard that his ex-wife had committed first-degree murder. What do you do with that information? How do you process such a thing?
You add meat to the cheese on the Triscuit. Then you throw in some sort of fried food. And wine. Have I mentioned the wine?
So it appears I have developed an Isis and first-degree murder inspired eating disorder, which is redundant if you think about it and the all-time weirdest sentence I never thought I’d write. But I’m guessing you have too.
By Saturday night, I was in a food frenzy coma. Feeling bloated and angry with myself, I said a little prayer as I rolled like a Weeble into bed.
Let me receive clarity, I asked. Clarity on all of it—Life, death, Isis, stress eating—all of it.
I’m not sure, but I think I feel asleep with a Triscuit in my mouth.
Do a green drink fast for at least the next three days was the first thing I heard the next morning in that place between asleep and awake. That’s my sweet spot, that place. I’ve heard amazing things there from the part of me that has my well-being at heart. Life changing things. Hard things. Things that terrified me in—a good way.
So I assumed that was the answer to my query.
Remember me? I’m the one practicing surrender. Fucking surrender. To what life offers and where my intuition guides me.
So here I am, late Monday morning, a little over twenty-four hours in and I am suffering! The timing of this is a cruel joke.
We shopped for Thanksgiving yesterday, so not only are there Triscuits in the house, there are Ruffles with ridges. And dip. And the ingredients for pies. Pies that I will have to make during this green drink thing.
Lord help me.
There were so many delectable holiday food commercials on television last night that I put myself to bed at 8:30. I couldn’t stand it. Even the Denny’s commercial had me salivating. I think I have to give back my foodie membership card for saying that.
This morning I’m hangry (anger brought on by hunger). I almost killed a man with my bare hands at the car wash. I see you there, you man. Enjoying your Power Bar. Asshole.
I’m coming unhinged.
Pray for me. I’m winging it here and have clearly lost my mind. I’ve decided to go all the way through Wednesday, making this a four-day green drink fast.
This is noteworthy. I am someone who only dabbles in green drinks. I am an amateur and an all time whining wimp. This is the Olympic Decathlon of green drinking and my hope is to medal because I’ve been told by the bravest part of me, the part that knows no fear, that after such a systemic detox—then I will find clarity.
Until then…
I am so screwed.
I’ll keep you posted.
xox
