I closed on my childhood home today. My family had lived there for nearly 40 years, and when I moved my dad into assisted living after he broke his leg almost two years ago, it was time to let it go. 2 years, you say? Continue reading
When I tried to think of a name for this blog, I thought about various denigrating names for recovery, but then dismissed them as rather one-sided. After all, I’m hoping recovery is a good thing. At least, everyone tells me it is, and that it’s worth the hell I’m currently in. I came up with the blog name when I realized that I’d gotten to the point one afternoon before going out to run errands when I had to pack a lunch bag with various “safe” foods so that I would eat something moderately decent so I could avoid the freaking-out-from-hunger-but-there’s-nothing-safe drama, and as I’m picking foods that my dietician and I had agreed on, I sat there counting Triscuits and wondering if a broken Triscuit counted as half or a third of one cracker. In a way, it was brilliant. I had come up with my own one-question quiz to see if you have an eating disorder:
Question: Have you ever spent twenty minutes debating whether a broken tasteless cracker should be rounded up to the nearest whole cracker?