Some food goes bad. You can see it. Smell it. Hell, it’ll practically walk itself to the trash.
Not this.
Food addiction doesn’t rot. It doesn’t get weak. It doesn’t lose its bite. It’s shelf-stable, vacuum-sealed, and stashed in the back of my mind like a can of beans in a fallout shelter. Doesn’t matter if it’s been 10 days or 10 years since the last binge — the second I crack that seal, it’s fresh and mean as the day I left it.
And here’s the kicker — it remembers me. My flavor. My weak spots. My go-to excuses. This thing is a sniper, and I’m always in its sights.
I can string together “good days.” Stack ‘em up like poker chips. Start believing I’m untouchable. But this disease is patient. It doesn’t come running — it waits for me to get tired, lazy, or full of myself. Then it slides in, smooth as a con man, whispering, “Just one bite.”
That “one bite” is a time machine. I’m not nibbling — I’m back in the wreckage, like I never left. The shame, the hiding, the lost nights, the gut full of regret… all there waiting like I’d never missed a day.
This disease has no expiration date. The only thing that goes bad is me — my life, my hope, my freedom — if I stop paying the daily price.
So I pay it.
I weigh my food.
I make the calls.
I hit my knees and pray like my life depends on it — because it does.
I’m not doing this because I’m cured.
I’m doing it because the disease is still here.
And it’s waiting.
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Prayer
God,
Don’t let me get stupid.
Don’t let me fall for my own smooth talk.
Keep my head where my feet are
and my feet planted in recovery.
This disease is slick —
it whispers sweet and it bites hard.
I know it’s still out there,
grinning in the shadows,
waiting for me to blink.
So hand me the truth,
even if it stings.
Give me the backbone to fight,
the humility to ask for backup,
and the guts to walk away from the bite
that will burn my life down.
Amen.
The Waiting Room
It’s not gone.
It’s in the corner,
arms crossed,
grinning like a loan shark
who knows I still owe.
I’ve paid in blood,
in shame,
in pounds and tears,
but the tab stays open —
and interest is hell.
It doesn’t chase.
It doesn’t have to.
It just waits.
I walk past every day,
pretending I don’t see it,
pretending my name’s not on the list.
So I keep my head low,
my steps steady,
my prayers loud.
Because the second I stop moving,
it’s on me.
Once was too much.
Twice is a death sentence.
DeeBo