Here’s a diary entry, in its entirety, that I wrote recently:

It’s Friday, 6.00 a.m, dark and, to me it feels mild. I’m searching for that pangy hungry feeling I like to have in the morning. ‘Well People’ would call it “famished”. My dulled senses call it “peckish”. Anyway, it’s not there, today. I may have been too snacky yesterday. Or is it psycho-somatic?

We’re going to Centreparcs today. Last night I was manifesting that head-congested, fast-talking stress behaviour. I’m feeling a bit lost and threatened and goalless. I’m losing a whole weekend to this, from Friday evening to Sunday evening. Each weekend at home is a pause for breath in the bewildering headlong rush of life and I’m losing the whole thing and rushing straight back into Monday! I’ll suffocate! I’m anxious about not writing or keeping up my blog. I’m anxious about being able to manage my meals. I’m terrified of the deep, arctic, misery of queuing for the water slide as my body heat escapes through my wet, uninsulated skin and my core temperature drops and drops.

I’m desperate to take as much exercise as humanly and temporally possible. I want to experiment with seeing what is the smallest amount of food my body will let me take during the weekend. Why is this? My brain can’t see an emotional connection between these feelings and going to Centreparcs, but I know I shouldn’t trust my brain, even on apparently physical symptoms like hunger. “I know I shouldn’t trust my brain”?! That’s like 3 separate loci of consciousness! What a fractured self I have!

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