Weight loss

One of the things I like about visiting my brother and his family for Christmas is the chance to spend a few days in a domestic environment that’s in sterling condition. It’s interesting how the surroundings reflect on my own character. At home my mind is as scattered as the stuff that’s scattered all over my house, and much of my energy is wasted every day on sifting through the piles in order to find that one particular thing that I’m not constantly tripping over. At my brother’s everything seems to have it’s place. If it’s not there, then presumably only temporary. The lighting is flattering to skin and food. The decoration is chosen with care and deliberation. There I become more focused, my language loses it’s rough edge, and my self-destructive urges to inhale a cigarette or numb myself with booze vanish so quickly that I almost don’t take note of it.
Every year when I’m at my brother’s I make grand plans of cleaning up my act. It’s hard to keep the momentum for more than a few days after returning home though, when there’s so much to do that any progress feels like a drop in the ocean. And this year there’s the additional pain of throwing away all those magazines my dad collected and stored in our basement. My dad’s sentimentality didn’t manifest in photographs or videos of loved ones, but instead in a 4-digit number of VHS-tapes containing educational TV-Shows and stacks of daily newspapers and computer magazines dating back to the 80s. The exact same things I was surrounded by when I was a kid. The things that bring back recollections of my dad with more intensity than any photograph ever could. My past, contained in a giant pile of trash.
I feel that when I get this done, I’ll have finally beaten my demons, and nothing in the world can stop me anymore from what it never was actually stopping me, like living my life instead of running from it.
I’m not too optimistic about it.