I Have Seen the Delusion: Part II

 I envision this woman that I want to be: healthy, wealthy, and wise. Most of the time, I feel tortured by my body – not supplying me with enough energy. One of my friends has been begging me to try out this “…eating to your blood-type” diet. I am skeptical.

“Do you know your blood-type?” my friend Jeri asked.

I don’t know how long Jeri and I have been friends, but something tells me it has been quite a long time. She knows all my secrets, all my fears, all my life goals, and all my flaws. On the flip side, I also consider her my worst enemy. A friend with all that knowledge has the ability to turn things around and exploit me for the horrible person that I am. I am afraid of Jeri.

“I don’t know my blood-type. I have never known my blood-type,” I said.

“Well, I have a one of those at-home kits that will determine your blood-type,” Jeri said. “All I have to do is prick your finger and squeeze out some of the blood onto the specialized papers.”

“You know I hate needles. Are you crazy?” I said with a slight laugh in my voice. Superman is to kryptonite as I am to needles. They are not my friends; I am not theirs.

“If I knew your blood-type I’d be able to find out what foods are most beneficial to your health. You really ‘oughta try it, Kary. With the problems you have been having, your answer may simply lie within the food you eat,” Jeri said with concern.

Jeri is referring to the problems I have been having with vomiting. She thinks they are self-induced, but, like most other people, she doesn’t believe the truth. This diet she wants me to be on is her way of showing me that there are healthier foods out there for me to eat. All the crap you eat now, she tells me, is bad for your digestion. She thinks eating food that is actually good for me will bring me out of depression and prevent me from sticking my finger down my throat. I would tell her that it wouldn’t help since I never stuck my finger down my throat to begin with.

But am I depressed? I am drinking again, for the purpose of getting drunk. It seems to be getting worse – me making choices that won’t set me apart anymore. All these excuses and realities and other such things led up to this point. I grieve. I may be angry. Guilty and angry is more like it. Lots of anger, though. I am angry that with all these goals that I set out for myself to complete, I fall short. My body doesn’t want to participate. It frustrates me; it angers me. I sob for the future of me and the future of Kary today – who is going to be doing the same thing in five years. Both her and I are sad.

[to be continued…] 

All the people and places depicted are fictional. Any similarity or relation to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.