I don’t even know why I’m writing this. I just feel… ROTTEN. Like I’m rotting from the inside out, but nobody can see it because on the outside I’m all… everything is fine, everything is perfect. My entire life is a perfectly curated lie. I train six days a week, teach spin and bootcamp, run my OWN damn studio, and my body is a TEMPLE. Or it’s supposed to be. It’s my brand. My livelihood. “Healthy choices,” I tell my clients. “Nourish your body,” I preach. I literally just told a woman this morning that her body is a gift. A GIFT. And then once a week, usually Tuesdays, because Tuesdays are HELL, I drop my kid off at my sister’s, tell her I have a late client, and I drive. I don’t even know where I’m going sometimes, just until it’s dark. And then I find some grimy alley, always dark, always disgusting. I park and I order. A double cheeseburger. Large fries. Sometimes a shake. And I eat it. In silence. Absolute, profound silence. No music, no podcast, no phone calls from my mom wondering why I haven’t picked up my kid yet. No texts from my husband asking if I picked up the dry cleaning. Just the sound of me, chewing. And it’s… GLORIOUS. And then the self-loathing hits. Every. Single. Time. It's like a wave. I finish the last fry, wipe my greasy hands on a napkin, and the shame just washes over me. What the FUCK am I doing? I’m 31. I have a child. I own a successful business. I am a pillar of HEALTH in my community. People PAY me to help them make better choices. And I’m out here, skulking in the dark, shoveling garbage into my face like some kind of… animal. It’s almost like a compulsion. Like I NEED to do this. I HATE it. I CRAVE it. It’s a sickness. I think about it all week. That one hour of absolute, unadulterated selfishness. Just me and the grease and the quiet. No demands. No expectations. Nobody needing me to fix their problems or pick up their slack or tell them they’re doing a good job. Because I’m always the one doing the good job, aren’t I? Always the one holding it all together. My mom has early onset dementia, my husband works twelve-hour days, my kid needs constant attention, my clients need CONSTANT motivation. I’m exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally. I am running on fumes. Maybe this is a meltdown. Is this what a meltdown feels like? Like a dirty burger in a dark alley? And the worst part? The ABSOLUTE worst part? It makes me feel alive. For that one hour, I’m not a wife, a mom, a daughter, a boss. I’m just… me. A pathetic, greasy me, but me nonetheless. And then I throw the wrappers away, drive home, and pretend it never happened. Wipe the grease from my mouth, put on my perfect smile, and become the person everyone needs me to be. And then I count down the days until next Tuesday. I feel completely insane.