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Sleep eluded me tonight.
Despite having three meals and squeezing in two small snacks between lunch and dinner, the gnawing hunger persisted, tenacious and relentless.
My eyes welled with tears as a tumultuous storm of emotions raged within me.
Shame washed over me, a heavy cloak of self-judgment, for craving more than what was deemed appropriate. Guilt gnawed at my conscience, whispering accusations of weakness for considering succumbing to the allure of my cravings. Worry gripped my heart with icy fingers, its tendrils reaching out to ensnare my every thought. Fearful of harming our precious piccolo, I battled against the relentless pull of temptation, torn between my maternal instincts and the fear of being perceived as uncontrollable, selfish, and greedy.
The last time I felt this kind of gnawing hunger was six years ago, back when I lived with parents. During those fifteen tormenting years under their roof, my starvation bordered on desperation. I remembered the sharp pangs in my stomach, the relentless emptiness that seemed to consume me from the inside out.
But I wasn't starving now. I was blessed and fortunate to have a fridge and pantry filled with more food than I could ever imagine having. Today, I had eaten healthy, truly delicious food.
I knew my body had no reason to crave more; it had been given everything it needed.
So why was I still so hungry? Why did this emptiness persist, aching and insistent, as if some fundamental part of me was still deprived?
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Small, droplets fell on my chest, instantly pulling me from the depths of sleep.
As my eyes snapped open, they met a pair of crystal-clear orbs, gleaming with an ocean of unshed tears, their redness reflecting a misery that twisted me into knots.
Instantly, a surge of alarm and concern washed over me.
"Baby, are you alright?"- I asked raspingly, my voice thick with worry, as I hurriedly sat up and turned on the light, my heart pounding in worry as she sat up and reached for me.
