So I had therapy on Wednesday.  I know you’ve been sitting here, waiting with bated breath, biting your nails and bouncing your foot on your knee, just DYING to know if I did my homework and threw the peanut butter away.

Well, I won’t keep you in suspense.

It was Tuesday morning.  I knew my next appointment was in twenty-four hours, and I was wrestling with a couple of things:

1. I don’t like to follow directions.  You tell me to hurry up, I’m suddenly exhausted and need a nap. So since I was asked to throw away food, there it sits in the pantry.  I’d have been more likely to chuck it if no one had TOLD me to.
2. I know I’m going to be held accountable to this.  And I hate letting my boss, teachers, etc. down.  My therapist is going to be VERY DISAPPOINTED in me if I don’t do this.  And if I DON’T get it done, who knows what I’ll get asked to do next??  Steal someone’s baby?  Knock over a bird’s nest, swipe the eggs, and make an omelet I eat while looking out the window where Momma Robin can stare at me eating her young? File my taxes again?  Give up my shoe collection, INCLUDING my teal cowboy boots, which are the cutest things ever?  NOOOoooooo….I better get to it so I don’t have to do something less comfortable as penance.
3. IT’S JUST FREAKING PEANUT BUTTER.<sigh>

So, after my morning run, while the hubby was in the shower…I DID IT.  I NOT ONLY scooped out all the chocolate peanut butter with a spatula and washed it down the garbage disposal – I ALSO (being an overachiever when I’m being graded) threw out a mostly-eaten bag of kettle-cooked potato chips.

VICTORY IS MINE!  BWA HA HA HA (You TOTALLY need a sinister laugh when you’re running the garbage disposal.  It makes the process so much more empowering.)

So I was delighted to be able to report to Dr. P that I did complete my task.  And I was impressed that she was prepared enough to remember to ask me about it.  (Note to self:  My therapist apparently prepares for my sessions.  It would seem that she either has an enviable memory, or actually reviewed my file.  Either way, I wasn’t expecting anyone to be that invested in me and my sad, weird first-world problems.  I suppose for what therapy costs, I should expect this level of attention, and the fact that this was a pleasant surprise probably speaks volumes about our health care system.  But I digress.)

We talked about this food-chucking for a bit. I told her what I had thrown out.  She totally called me on putting it off until the last minute, too.  Good for her.  Being held accountable made me actually change my behavior and take action, so we know that works.

Dr. P asked me how I felt about it.  It was odd; after all the energy I invested in avoiding the task, getting around to actually accomplishing it was pretty anti-climatic.  I didn’t feel stressed, or anxious….  I actually felt somewhat relieved, to be honest.  These two items – unfinished remnants of a binge – were no longer hanging around just waiting for me to fail again.  They were reminders of times I’ve failed in the past – but they were also a promise that I’d mess up again later.  Who needs that kind of pressure?  OFF WITH YOUR HEADS, toxic (yet delicious) chocolate PB and nutritionless (and enticingly crunchy) greasy potato chips.  Out you go.  We only have room for fabulous here!

Her other question, though – why did I hide this from my husband?  I thought that was a fair question.  Really, as much as I gripe on here about how much I hate his T-shirt collection, he’s been nothing but supportive regarding my “food issues.”  Dr. P wondered if the hubs saw me actually throw out food, would he think I was suddenly “cured” of my aversion to tossing things, and nag at me when it wasn’t so easy next time?

I really don’t think that was the issue.  I really just wanted to avoid questions.  For one, the hubs really would like me to gain a couple of pounds – so if I’m throwing “fattening” food away that he knows I can eat large volumes of, would he maybe wonder if therapy was good for me – or if I was going at all (maybe sneaking off to Weight Watchers instead?)  Or would he start to wonder what food I actually DID eat, and what I threw out when he wasn’t looking, so I could fast/starve while making it appear I had eaten much more than I actually did?  (He knows I used to do this all the time in high school. Dang courting phase of the relationship where I spilled my deep dark secrets.)

So, since therapy is fairly new for me, and since I think it’s helping somewhat, I didn’t want to upset the apple cart by introducing new opinions.  It’s just me and Dr. P for now, with guest appearances from my pantry’s evil villains.

Incidentally, this was the first therapy session I had where I didn’t bawl my way through an entire flat of tissues.  Progress?  Yeah baby.  I’m wearing my victory like a sassy new pair of heels.  <strut strut>

The real test will come in our next session, where we are going to talk about the hubby’s T-shirt collection and how I can better handle the wearable hate mail…but that’s not for two weeks.  I have time to ride the victory wave.

P.S.  Did I just write 900 words about throwing away a jar of peanut butter?!?  Seriously??  I’ll take “Things That Only People With Food Issues Understand” for $500, Alex.