Trauma and Distress at Diet's End

When I awoke, it was already sunny. I arose and padded across the stone floor to the lounge room. Through the ceiling-to-floor glass doors shone the sun. I slid them open and stepped onto the patio.

I turned back towards the kitchen. The wall clock showed 5 a.m.

My stomach was screaming for food. I started frying some eggs and put the Mocha coffee pot on for strong coffee.

With trembling hands, I poured the coffee, slid the eggs onto a plate and went out to the patio. The eggs and coffee calmed my stomach. The protein and fat lulled it.

Four hours later my housemates started to emerge from dreamland. They set to laying the breakfast table, piling the table with mounds of white-flour baguettes. Sitting around these odious piles of carbs, they would reach them, tear them apart and slaver them with butter and jam.

I felt awkward and withdrew. At 11 a.m. I raided the fridge for ham. At 1.30 everyone was tucking into a hearty lunch at a restaurant, I had a grilled chicken breast with no side of carbs.

My diet was finished. I shouldn't have been losing any more weight. Yet, I was.

Back from holiday, I could weigh myself; I was shocked. I needed ways to increase my calorie consumption. I started to eat yet more meat, more vegetables, more tins of sardines; the weight kept coming off.

I was failing.

There was answer an answer though. It came quickly and unexpectedly. It came during one of those errors of judgement which the Wise always counsel you against. The answer was with friends, in a pub, around a table. The answer came in glass packages containing 200 Calories each.

The answer was: beer.

The Answer