It was a Saturday. My morning started with a too normal yet still burdensome epiphanic, sort of, moment: “Gosh, I have too much to do!” I had a 300-450 word response journal due by Sunday midnight for which I need to read two stories—being “studious”, I kinda started reading it last night yet I fall asleep, and I guess I could recall what the book was talking about only as much as I could recall what I dreamed about while I fall asleep (right now, I don’t even remember if I dreamed at all); a paper due Tuesday—which, by the way, I have very few idea about; an economic exam coming up Thursday—I did not digest even Chapter 1, 2 material well enough yet although we were on Chapter 6; plus other typical small weekly assignments; plus, a piano lesson which I should be practicing ahead. So, I made up my mind that I would seriously work this weekend.

After practicing piano, I sat down to start collecting information for my paper assignment. Half awake, half asleep, I googled “Brexit Impacts on Scottish Referendum for Independence”. Millions of tabs on my chrome; I became overloaded with information. So, I figured I should take a break (not that I had worked too hard). Not knowing how to be productive, I just thought I would go to D’hall and have breakfast though I was not hungry (Food would give my brain energy). There started my food addiction syndrome.

An omelette,

a French toast, and

a glass of milk.

I thought it would be enough. In fact, it was way more than my normal breakfast, an oatmeal.

Being a fast-eater, I finished them within ten or fifteen minutes. I was kinda full. Yet, I did not want to leave D’hall yet. I thought about what I needed to do when I left D’hall. I thought about lots of work waiting for me. In my mind, I subconsciously measured the pressure imposed by each work. I was scared. Of what?

Of work?

Of starting?

Or of being imperfect when I start my work? (though I knew I am imperfect and, at least, to me, perfection is unattainable).

Anyway, I got up and got a three-quarter glass full of soymilk. I instinctively took a cake, dipped it in soymilk. Not even thinking, I walked to get egg, sausage and gravy. Then, I came back, sat down and had them all.

Sometimes I wonder if that was love for food that made me eat too much?

Do I even love food that much?

Or, again, is it stress?

Or, is it fear of starting?

Or, is it a way to procrastinate?

That afternoon, about an hour later, I got up from the desk at Martin, walked to the College Center and got a bowlful of pita breads with hummus. Again, I was not hungry but I could not just sit, study and concentrate. My Scotland paper had still not been started. The google tabs were still open.

I finished them all—not the reading tabs but the ten pieces of pita breads in a row (While writing about it, I am ashamed of it).

Why was I spoiling myself?

Was it because I like pita bread too much?

Was I just losing control?

Was I protesting against things I should do by indulging myself and doing things I knew I shouldn’t do?

I thought about it while studying. I thought about myself not doing what I should do, not following healthy habits. I thought about myself not controlling myself. I thought: Was it

Love for food?

Mere indulgence?

Anti self-abstinence (a revolution against self-abstinence)?

I thought and I read about Scotland.

Three hours later, I got up again and walked without a specific direction and ended up at Zime. There I got a latte and a white chocolate raspberry scone. I ate about a quarter of the scone there waiting for the latte. Then, I got the latte. As an afterthought, I got another scone. Coming back to the library with two scones and a latte, I tried to study.

I was not hungry. I had too much homework.

I finished a scone. My homework had not gone any farther.