Cade is having surgery tomorrow. It’s minor – he’s getting tubes put in his ears that should help decrease the length/severity/amount of ear infections he’s prone to. Really, the procedure is like fifteen, twenty minutes tops. But still.
And now I’m freaking myself out.
My old anxiety is rearing its ugly head.
What if he doesn’t wake up from the anesthesia?
What if something else goes wrong – like what if they make everything worse and his ears fall off and he develops an allergy to latex, ketchup, and 100% cotton?
And then my thoughts quickly turn to (as they always do in times like this):
I’m fat, I don’t deserve food, Cade’s surgery will go more smoothly if I lose a few pounds before then.
This is what I do.
Instead of worrying about the real things – the things with substance, the things that matter, I worry about something trivial and of unimportance:
The physical appearance of this ‘ol vessel of mine.
It’s so lame.
It’s getting old.
Body love and self-acceptance is something that is slow in coming, even after my physical eating disorder behaviors begin to diminish. I eat now, which is great.
But what’s not so great? The cameo appearance of my old enemy. My arch-nemesis. The thorn in my side: my anxiety turned let’s-beat-up-on-Brie-session.
But it’ll pass.
It always does.
In the meantime, I think I’ll go get a snack.