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An Emotional Eater's Diary
An Emotional Eater's Diary
An Emotional Eater's Diary
Ebook38 pages25 minutes

An Emotional Eater's Diary

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Amanda is thirty four years-old, single, has low self-esteem, and is struggling to beat an addiction for which there is no help available. While alcoholics have the A.A. and drug addicts have drug rehab and counselling, emotional eaters—have fad diets that suck them dry of nutrients and energy. They also have starvation. These are Amanda’s only means of combating an addiction that is ruining her life. These are Amanda's diary entries.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherDr H Adam
Release dateJun 5, 2016
ISBN9781311867384
An Emotional Eater's Diary

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    An Emotional Eater's Diary - Huria Adam

    Entry #1 – What’s the point of all this?

    Dear diary, I am an emotional eater, and I need your help. Ha, who am I kidding? This is I, Amanda Penman, the Queen of all those forgotten tomorrows, the purveyor of excuses—the binger of junk. I’m not sure how to start this, so I’m just going to let my mind roll with it.

    I have a serious problem. I’m what the experts call an: ‘emotional eater’. What does that mean, exactly? It’s as simple as it sounds, really. I eat when I’m on a downer—but I’m not talking like some broken-hearted teenager that hugs a tub of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream while she softens the pain with its contents. That would be okay. That wouldn’t be so bad, at least not as bad as this.

    That jilted teen, and most other girls, who have ever suffered heartache, or rejection, will recover, and get over the loss. She’ll probably find another boyfriend or just get on with her life. She’ll burn off that tub of comfort with a few trips to the gym, and tell herself she’s better than him anyway. That girl, that girl is in control.

    Me, on the other hand—I’ve been that teenager since I was at university. I’m thirty-four, now. While my friends are all getting hitched, and slimming down to fit into their wedding dresses, then going on honeymoons to sunny Barbados, and Hawaii, where they’ll tan, only worrying about their bikini lines—I’m still single. And bikinis? The less said about them the better!

    Once upon a time, I ate because I was in pain. The food comforted me, like a friend, a shoulder to cry on. If I was distressed, or freaking out about something, that packet of biscuits sitting there amongst the tins of beans, and spaghetti hoops whispered that everything was going to be alright. Like a kid hugs his teddy, and watches cartoons, I sat there, in the semi-darkness of my flat living room, watching reality TV, while holding that open packet to my chest, dipping into it repeatedly until

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