I have blogged about our biological imperative to EAT ALL THE SUGAR and the reasons that diets fail. Now I want to talk about shame.

I don’t know about you, but just the word “shame” makes me feel squirmy inside. I kind of want to hold down the Delete button and start a different, more pleasant post. Like I could tell you about the fish babies that recently hatched in our aquarium, or the amazing bread pudding I made yesterday, or the cute bird that has started frequenting the apple tree that I can see from my desk.

But I need to talk about shame.

Shame thrives on secrecy and silence. I know, from personal experience, that shame cannot last long if I writing and talk about it publicly. (Exhibit A, my memoir. Exhibit B, my first podcast.) I have a lot of shame wrapped up in food, my weight, body, and the ghosts of diets past. I am sick of carrying that shame around so here we go.

I am ashamed that I am overweight.

I am ashamed that I lose control and EAT ALL THE SUGAR.

I am ashamed that I lose weight and then regain it.

I am ashamed of my body.

I am ashamed of my food cravings.

I am ashamed about all the times I failed to stick to a diet.

I am ashamed that everyone else seems capable of losing weight except me.

I am ashamed about all my #dietfails.

I feel a sort of uncomfortable tingling in my head, neck and chest from writing those sentences. There’s some extra heat in my cheeks. My body is reacting physically to the idea of shame.

The dictionary defines “shame” as “the painful feeling arising from the consciousness of something dishonorable, improper, ridiculous, etc., done by oneself or another.”

But have I actually done anything wrong?

I don’t think so. I’ll write more about that tomorrow.