Tag Archives: food issues

Just Another Day

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So yesterday, I had a birthday.  I turned for thirty-fourteen.  (Side note:  Would you believe that someone actually called me “childish” for stating my age as thirty-something?  HELLO – THAT’S KIND OF THE POINT.)

Normally, I don’t make a big fuss over birthdays.  Not because I have some underlying fear of growing older (although, since I’ve been frantically searching info on Botox and fillers, maybe I do.)

I don’t “do” birthdays – or much with other holidays, really – simply because I don’t want to be disappointed when they don’t meet my expectations.  Special occasions aren’t magically special to the rest of the world. For the most part, it’s just another day.

Sure, when I was a kid, we did up birthdays a little – there was a home-baked cake, and there were presents – nothing extravagant; my folks were of VERY modest* means.  But when I was ten or so, I spilled some milk on the carpet in the living room, and was promptly scolded – as my tears fell, I remember the distinct realization that birthdays didn’t give you an enchanted force field around the otherwise painful things in life.  To a frazzled parent trying to run a business and make ends meet, it’s just another day.

*OK, let’s be clear here:  we were poor.  As in “made $50 too much this year for us to get free lunches from school” poor.  Also as in “Dad’s boss gave us his kids’ hand-me-downs so between that and the dresses Mom sewed, we girls wouldn’t be naked.”  They did a decent job keeping that from us, though.  I didn’t figure out how tight money really was until high school, when my folks were really grumpy for awhile, and the mood in the house got really dark; I was feeling abandoned, and it all came to a head when Mom found a list I had left in my room outlining ways to kill myself, and she and Dad came to talk to me and shared that they had lost $3000 (a fortune in the mid-80s) to a customer who defaulted on an order.  They were super stressed but they loved me very much, blah blah blah.  There were tears and hugs and then things went back to normal, meaning I started a new diet and got much better at keeping my disquietude on the DL .  But that’s a story for another day.

Fast forward to high school prom.  Special time, right?  You’ve been looking forward to this for MONTHS; you’re all dolled up in a glitzy dress; your date has a tux – an actual TUXEDO, like he might wear to your WEDDING someday! – and you’re at a spendy, trendy, restaurant, actually EATING.  (I quit eating two days ahead of time so that I could allow myself to have a decent meal with my boyfriend.  I weighed about 102 at the time and he LOVED to see me actually eating – probably because I never really DID that, ya know – so I guess this was a special occasion for him, too.)

As I was looking around, taking it all in, a couple not with our group came into the restaurant…in JEANS.  HELLO PEOPLE – this is PROM here; shouldn’t the world be dressed up, too?  Don’t you think they’d, like, close the restaurant or AT LEAST up the dress code for a day so we don’t have to see non-prom unfancy people in here?  YOU’RE TOTALLY BRINGING DOWN THE VIBE HERE.  But no, to those folks…it was just another day.

I had the same feeling at my first wedding.  You come out of the church chucking rice or quinoa or biodegradable soy-free non-toxic glitter confetti or whatever it’s PC to throw nowadays, and the same homeless dude is sitting on the corner holding the same “WILL WORK FOR FOOD BEER” sign he was holding yesterday.  Where is the bewitching sprite with the magic wand turning the world into fairy tales with happy endings and unicorns?  Well, dummy, she doesn’t exist.  It’s just another day, after all.

And then there was Mother’s Day.  If I were holding out hope for having a day to feel special…Mother’s Day took care of that.  You know how some spouses will buy you a card, or flowers, on Mother’s Day, because he really appreciates all you do to help raise your beautiful children?  Yeah, I didn’t marry that guy.  He got a card for HIS mother, of course – he made it clear that she was his top priority*, after all.

*Later in that marriage, when things were really falling apart, I asked him point-blank about this.  I told him that, as his WIFE, I should be a higher priority than his mother – and that if things were going to work out, he needed to put my needs ahead of hers. 

His answer?  “Well, she won’t be around forever.” 

Me:  So…I need to wait for her to die for me to be a priority for you?” 

He didn’t answer.

I left him in 2005 and she’s still alive, so I’d still be waiting. 

Fast forward to my second Mother’s Day.  I had a toddler and a newborn; I was nursing the latter and the former still wasn’t sleeping through the night, and I was (obviously) BEAT.  My baby was asleep, and my daughter wanted to play outside.  But, sadly, there was a gruesome scene in our backyard – one of the neighborhood cats had completely decimated a bunny.  I couldn’t let her see that, so I asked my husband if he could please take care of it so I could take our daughter outside.

He told me that he couldn’t do it right now, because he really needed a nap.

I think that was the beginning of the end.

I left my little girl inside while I found a coal shovel.   I hauled the broken little bunny over the side of the embankment, tears streaming down my face from exhaustion, frustration, sadness, and disappointment.  That poor little bunny.  My poor, sad, pathetic crappy marriage.  My broken heart and broken dreams.

It was just another day.

So, I learned to keep my expectations pretty low.  It was the only way I could protect my heart from the fissures that cracked and spread when expectations failed to bloom into reality.

Despite all this – despite the fact that I know better than to expect anything different – it still really, really hurt that my husband completely, totally, and utterly forgot my birthday.

We don’t do much for birthdays.  His is three days after mine; we usually hit up Benihana for a free meal a time or two in June, and we usually buy something for the house (this year, it was chairs for the yard.)

But he always gets me a card.  Sometimes two – one funny and one sappy.  But at least one.  And he always says “Happy Birthday”….

Not this year.

No card.  Nothing.

This year, his hyperfocus (I wrote about that a bit before) is on Destiny – he needs to beat some level and he’s been playing a ton – I think six hours yesterday and so far two today.

I know, I know – you canNOT rely on others for happiness; you have to create your own.  And I did my best to do that – I may write more on that later – but still, is it too much to ask to have your HUSBAND just say “Happy birthday, hon!” ?

Apparently, it is.

Sadly, my reaction to this is to quit eating.  Why talk about it?  It just hurts, and the best way to get out of the painful, neglected feeling is to jump right back on the back of the crocodile.  Why?  Because it’s super effective.  Screw recovery – all it’s done for me is turn me beige in a world of color.  It shoved me into the background, unnoticed.  At a normal weight, I’m no longer special. I’m no longer worth worrying about.  No need to be fussed over.  No need to make me feel special, unique, appreciated, or loved.

I’m just another person, and it’s just another day.

So today, I start over, renewed.  I’ll weigh out my food, including yellow mustard (because at five calories a teaspoon, it DOES add up.)  I’ll run four days a week.  I’ll carve out my path with my clavicle and my hipbones.

I’ll obsess over every bite.  I’ll plan and measure every calorie I eat.  I’ll chart every half pound lost, every quarter mile run, and every step taken.  I’ll fret over falling asleep without a rumbling, empty stomach.  I’ll grab handfuls of flesh and scrutinize every lump, bump, and jiggle when I look in the mirror.  And I’ll drink water and coffee and I’ll smile and say I’m fine, just fine.

In other words…it’ll be just another day.

Observations from the Airport

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I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned that I travel quite a bit- about every two weeks or so. This is one of those things that sounds quite glamorous and worldly…until you actually have to DO it. 

Today I’ve had the (dis)pleasure of being trapped in one of America’s busiest airports for four long, freezing, germy, frustrating hours. In one of the few airports with NO FREE WI-FI.  OH THE OUTRAGE!!  HOW DOES THIS HAPPEN IN AMERICA. 

Initially, when I got off my first flight, I was thoroughly enjoying the irony. Historically, when I’ve taken this airline, I have a 90-minute layover. But United likes to keep it interesting, so my first flight is 45-75 minutes late – EVERY TIME, bringing my connection to a paltry twelve minutes. (My 5k PR has NOTHING on my time getting from gate E26 to C4. NOTHING.)

But today?  My first flight got in early…and flight #2 is 170 minutes late, and counting. <insert array of colorful expletives>

So here are some observations. 

1.  Even in my travel-disheveled state, I must look OK, because some dude chatted me up.  He was as hairy as a pool ball, had a ball cap resting atop his dome at a jaunty (read: misjudged how low the plane ceiling was) angle, and was dressed in more flannel than the Chicago metro area had seen since  probably buildings were invented, and he was THISCLOSE to asking me to join him for dinner when I just sort of nonchalantly wandered off. Thank goodness I had a cell phone to pretend to be interested in.   I know, rude. But I’m married. And flannel. 

2.  There are no good gluten-free options in this airport. And by “good”, I mean pizza. Or a sandwich. It’s Sunday  night – I get CRANKY on Sunday nights, people! -I’ve been on a sugar bender all weekend (including a particularly naughty threesome involving me and my two favorite men Ben and Jerry) and ALL I WANT IS A FREAKIN PIZZA YO. Or a sandwich. A nice sandwich. NOT AN EFFING SALAD.   Salad is NOT food. It’s what you eat when you’re pretending to eat. 

The oh-so-helpful menu guide on the interwebs tells me that there are some good gluten-free friendly options here. Like… McDonalds. WHAT. OH HELL NO

After wandering around for two hours in a sugar-crashed stupor (nope. Can’t eat that. Not that either. Don’t want this.   Can’t eat that. Really, Chicago- hot dogs, gluten-laden pizza, and Starbucks is the best you can %#%@&$?! do?) I started to quasi-hallucinate. I became <insert angelic choir> One With Foodstuffs. I realized that Food Is Magical and if I wished really, really hard, all the gluten would magically disappear and I COULD EAT ANYTHING I WANTED. 

3.  Magical thinking is dangerous.  Urghhh…never again. <urp>

4.  Magical thinking should probably NOT be followed up by a ginormous bag of Raisinettes. 

5.  Binging in the airport?  Stupid expensive. Sorry, kids- I guess you’ll have to sell plasma and a kidney to pay for college. 

6.  4th flight delay announced. Man sitting next to me blasts out of his seat and storms off in a huff. (Where he’s going in such a hurry, I have no idea. Maybe he spotted an abandoned Segway; it’s certain no actual PLANES are going anywhere anytime soon.)

The seat is very quickly taken over by someone roughly my father’s age. He’s  got his hands on the seat on either side of him, and while he isn’t making eye contact or small talk, I notice that every time I look, it seems like his hand is just a touch closer to my thigh than it was before.

I have to be imagining this, right?  I mean, since WHEN is travel-rumpled post-sugar binge anxiety a freakin’ pheromone?  The vibe I’m casting is slightly less cozy than “F OFF” or “FALL IN A PIT AND DIE”…yet the hand is creeping closer. 

I have no choice. Because I have to defend myself…and more honestly, because I just ate wheat for the first time in 18 months.

I take a deep breath, tighten my diaphragm, and release an abdominal-rippling belch that rattles the pens on the desk six gates over.

And, like a satisfied smoker inhaling her first post-relaxation puff, I exhale a cloud of pepperoni and garlic in Creepy Hand’s direction. 

He quickly jerks his hand away and sits straight up in his seat. (Which I may have melted slightly.)

Success!

And the plane is boarding, finally. I guess Chicago is done with me for today. The airport is ready to spit me out into the workweek-  a bit weary and bleary-eyed, and wary for the next round.

See you in a couple of weeks, Chicago. Next time I’m bringing a full supply of snacks, sneakers, and sarcasm- be warned. 

P.S.  Official arrival time: 3 hours late, on the nose. Bonus: the plane smelled like diapers. Travel is soooo glam. 

Let Them Eat Cake

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Dear Jerkface Coworker:

(OK.  That wasn’t very nice, I’ll admit.  Let me try again.)

Dear Busybody Employee:

(Better.  Maybe.)

I feel the need to address you again after our brief conversation in the break room on Wednesday.

Allow me to refresh your memory:  It was around noon, the day we had our quarterly employee meeting.  As you may recall, refreshments were served.  (This is common; if employees are stuffing their pie holes, they’re more likely to sit and listen vs. make snide remarks or check Facebook.  I know this because even though I work in HR, I’m an employee too, and am probably doing the same thing when the CEO isn’t looking.)

So. Refreshments.  We had coffee cake.  And it appears that the Activities Committee ordered a bit too much, because they were cutting “slices” that could clearly feed a third-world country for a week.  We also had fresh fruit available.

Later, the extra coffee cake was placed in the break room.  (This is where all “meeting room food” goes when the meeting is done – anything you put up there with a “free” sign magically gets eaten before the day shift leaves at 3 PM.)

I wandered up to the break room at about noon to get some hot water for my decaf herbal tea.  I noticed two large cake boxes on a table.  I went over to have a look.

I opened one of the boxes.  There were four gargantuan pieces in there, each likely adequate to choke a blue whale.  I inhaled.  I’ll admit, that cake smelled wonderful – warm, toasty, buttery; vanilla, cinnamon, and sugar.

Our finance dude came up next to me and took a slice.  He added it to his vending machine stash of a sandwich, a candy bar, and a soda, carrying in one handful more calories than I get in two days.  (Side note:  Do men have ANY IDEA how good they have it?  Between their metabolisms, steady hormones, no monthly “surprises”, and earning a dollar for every 78 cents I earn?  It’s no wonder we’re occasionally mad at you for no discernible reason.)

I closed the lid and walked away.

Then, uninvited, you joined the conversation in my head.

“Go ahead.  Have a slice.”

I paused.  I said, very politely, “Yeah…no thanks.”

Let me point out that in normal, polite society, this is where the conversation would end.

But you’re not normal, polite society, are you?  I’m afraid not, as you continued:

“Why not?  Have some cake!”

Why not?

Well, the simple answer is that I don’t eat wheat, and cake is typically a carrier.

But it’s just not that simple.

Cake is full of sugar.  Sugar completely effs with my mood, my psyche, and my inner peace.

And cake has lots of calories.  Fat, sugar, carbs.

So, this torrid threesome will sit in my guts, punching me from the inside as my body tries to digest it.

It will poke the sensitive sections of my brain, judging me for being weak while simultaneously begging for more, more, more – demanding candy and chocolate and cereal and donuts and cake and SUGAR SUGAR SUGAR which you might as well eat since you’re a hopeless, worthless lump of fat anyway.

This single slab of cake will alter my vision, so that when I next step in front of a reflective surface, my wide, flabby thighs and bloated, shapeless gut will be magnified, swallowing up every last bit of self-confidence I carry.

So.  How do I answer your question, rude as it was?

Well, I do speak American.  Specifically, I speak American Woman.  So, biting my tongue (who really wants to tell you to F off, and by the way, rethink the navy tights with the white sandals, OK sweetie?) I sigh, and say,

“Do you know how far I’d have to run to burn that thing off?”

Seeing understanding nods from the other ladies at the table, I turn my back and tend to my tea.  I think we’re done here.

But you’re not done.

You sneer.  I hear you snort.  (Legit snort.  Are we twelve?) I hear you roll your eyes.  And you say, “yeah, RIGHT”, dripping with so much sarcasm I’m afraid you’ll slip, fall, and make me file a worker’s comp claim.

And then you approach me, and repeat yourself.

“YEAH.  RIGHT.  SUUUUUUUURE.”

I’m making my tea and trying not to throat punch you.  That would be, as we say in HR, a career-limiting move, even though you’ve clearly earned a right hook at this point.

I look up. You’re pretty much up in my grill now.

“And exactly how far DO you run every day?”

I can tell by your expression that you’re trying to call me on my bluff.  And suddenly, I realize something.

This isn’t about me.

It’s about YOU.

This is about YOUR insecurities.  This isn’t about whether I run or if I eat cake.  It’s about you, and your struggles.

It’s about facing, every day, the impossible job of being an acceptable-looking female.  It’s about the media-created fantasy where you desire to be able to bake the treats in Good Housekeeping, yet still look like the front cover of Vogue.

It’s knowing that this is impossible, but wanting it anyway.  Because that’s what society tells us to be.

It’s about you wanting validation that it’s OK that it can’t be done.

And somehow, if you can prove that I wear the size I do while lounging on a recliner eating hunks of cake the size of a politician’s ego – if you can show that there’s no correlation between what you eat and how you look, because some people are just born that way – you’ll feel better.

But I’m still mad at you – or, more accurately, I’m frustrated and exhausted by my own demons so I don’t have time or energy to help you with yours.  So I shatter your small light bulb of hope and let you know that I do, in fact, run 3 1/2 miles several days a week.  And I once again decline the cake.  “But, if it makes you feel any better, I did have an orange this morning.  So I suppose I’ll have four Cheerios instead of six for dinner.”  And with that, I leave the room.

I’m not proud of this.   Hey, I’m human; sometimes painfully so.

But now that I’ve had time to think it over, I wanted to say that I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that you, like me, have your own demons to wrestle.

I’m sorry that sometimes, your own voices tell you you’re not good enough.

I’m sorry that you allow the airbrushed, exaggerated media to help define you.

And I wanted to also say thank you.  Because, really, if I think about it, you gave me a tremendous compliment:  You not only think I look pretty good, but apparently, you think I make it look easy.  Like it comes naturally.  And while that couldn’t be further from the truth, it was, at its core, complimentary.  With a little more patience and social maturity, perhaps, in the future, I can respond with, “I will choose to take that comment in the spirit in which I’m sure it was intended, and say, ‘thank you.'”

We women have a tough path – trying to balance career and family, trying to nurture our husbands and children while depriving ourselves, all while attempting to live up to impossible physical expectations.

The best thing we can do is lift each other up. We can lean on each other.  We can applaud our victories, share our joys, and pass out wine and tissues when we’re hurting.  We can work to love our souls and sign peace treaties with our thighs.

We’re all on the same team here.

So, while I can’t eat the cake just yet, I will have just a small dish of frozen custard tonight.  And instead of forgiving myself, I won’t apologize in the first place.

And I hope that the next time there’s cake, you take a piece just because you want one, and enjoy every buttery, sugary, joyful crumb.

Swimming with Crocodiles

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Recovery isn’t linear. It’s cyclical.

You have days, much like I did a week ago Saturday, where you feel so GOOD that you could just OWN the planet.  Nothing can stop you!

You strut proudly.  You’re feeling stable and solid.  You feel unshakable.

You feel good.  It feels GREAT!

You feel confident.  You feel strong.  Hey, life is…good!

You feel at peace with what you are and where you’ve come from.  You sigh in relief.  No mountain is too tall.  No earthquake is too strong.  You can do this!  You’re tough.  You’re solid.  You’re ready.

This feels easy.

Too easy.

One day, without warning, the wind changes direction.  The gentle breeze you were enjoying develops a sharp edge.  It starts to feel cold.  It begins to sting.

Perhaps it was a snub, a slight.  Maybe you received harsher-than-necessary words from a loved one.  You might feel a bit shut out from friends as you see they’ve planned an outing, a project, without you.  Your teenagers might possibly be waffling between childlike affection and adult indifference, and their flexing of the latter leaves your soul tender and mottled with bruises.

You draw yourself inward, trying to protect what you thought was strong and solid from bending and breaking under the heavy, cold blackness that seeps in.  You look to seek shelter, and the ground quakes around you.  You step gingerly, seeking a secure foothold, not knowing which moss-covered rock will teeter and slide, casting you into the icy darkness.

You struggle wildly, desperate to keep your head above the surface, gulping breaths between violent waves.  You grasp at something, ANYTHING, to keep you from washing away.

A branch.  A rock.

Anything.

Something familiar, something predictable.

Food.

Weight.

All you can think about is stopping the slide.  You want to get out of the cold blackness.  You need to get out of the wind.

You can’t find a branch; the rocks you grasp slip out of hands that refuse to cooperate.   You need to get out of this NOW.

You need to get back in control.

You latch on to the one thing that has pulled you out before.  Ah.  It’s familiar; it feels solid.  You climb on and look around.  You’re still in the river, and it’s whirling around you, but you can SEE that from here, and from this vantage point, none of the dangers that tried to suck you in can reach you.

I don’t need people.  I don’t need their drama and their utter crap.  I need to be thin.  I am powerful when I’m losing weight.  People are more interested in me when I’m thin.  I’m perceived as smarter, prettier, more competent when I’m thin.  I can lose five pounds this week; I’ll eat only fruit, I’ll run four times a week and do crunches until I can’t anymore.  I can be lighter, leaner. 

It’s no wonder no one wants anything to do with you.  Look at how your arms jiggle when you gesture wildly to make a point.  Look down and see the fat that bulges over your waistband when you sit down.  Walk some stairs and notice the bounce in your thighs, your hips. 

You are nothing with this layer of weakness you wear.  You are worthless.  Meaningless.  Nothing. 

Unbeknownst to you, you are not safe.

You were so focused on pulling yourself out of the current that you have hauled yourself onto the back of a crocodile.

You’ve climbed out of the water, but you’re still smack-dab in the middle of the river.  You know the water still surrounds you, waiting to suck you to its black depths. But it’s no longer your primary danger.

You feel safe, because you’re relied on crocodiles before.  On the back of a crocodile, you know what to expect.  Sure, there’s some danger here.  But I’m in control now.  I’m not in that uncomfortable river of “emotions” and “feelings” and speaking my mind and standing up for myself and demanding respect.

I don’t have to do the very difficult job of “working through” this, because all I can focus on is staying on the crocodile.  Because one flick of the tail, a snap of the jaw, and he’ll have me in his unyielding jaws.  He’ll drag me to the bottom of the river, exhausting me quickly as I succumb to the sea.

I should be looking for a sturdier platform.  A branch, a tree.  Something rooted solidly in the bank and the sun.  I should be shouting for help and reaching out for a hand.

But I don’t dare take my focus off the crocodile.

Eventually, the storms will subside a bit, and he’ll swim close enough to shore so that I can leap off his back onto the ground.  Once I do that, I have to run – run hard and run fast – so he can’t drag me back in.

He doesn’t have to try too hard, though.  He just eyes me cockily, and with a tilt of the head eases himself back into the water.

He knows the storms will come again.  He knows I’ll relax, let my guard down, be overconfident, and think I can row the rapids without a life jacket.

Perhaps one day I’ll find some reliable life preservers that I can keep securely on my person, having them at the ready with an emotional poncho.

Because no matter how brightly the sun shines today, the storms always roll back in.

And maybe one day, I can shoot the stupid crocodile and make myself a sweet pair of shoes out of his empty, depleted shell.

Drowning the Emotional Babel Fish

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This morning I was reading a recent post by The Persistent Platypus, “It’s ok to feel your emotions.”   She got me thinking a bit, because I’ve been working on expressing my emotions instead of drowning them with a bag of kettle corn.  See, when you have food issues, it’s almost never actually about the food, or your weight.  It’s about the emotions and feelings that express themselves through the voice of the eating disorder.

I’ll give you some examples:  Feeling sad?  No, you’re fat.  Disappointed in yourself?  No, you need to lose weight.  Someone hurt your feelings?  No, you need a cupcake.  Feeling stressed?  No, you’re starving….or, more accurately, you need to eat EVERYTHING, RIGHT NOW.  Even though you may not be physically hungry, something inside you is yelling, shouting, demanding, SCREAMING for a box of cereal, a large pizza, chocolate, ice cream candy bars chips EVERYTHING ALL OF IT NOW NOW NOW

It’s not about the food.

When you live with an eating disorder, or food issues, your mind translates uncomfortable, painful, confusing emotions into a language you’ve spoken since birth:  food and your weight.

It’s not about food, and its impact on the scale – and it never really was.  But, like some bizarre outer-space Babel fish, this is how your brain translates emotion.  It turns it into something you recognize and are accustomed to handling.  It may not be healthy, but it’s familiar and comfortable.

It’s what you know.

In the process of going through therapy and attempting to get well, I’ve experienced a strange phenomenon:  My food issues have a very strong, independent voice.  It’s almost like a separate entity living inside my head.

It’s been there for so long (over thirty years – yes, longer than some of you have probably been alive, rub it in already!) that the Voice and I have developed our own secret language of sorts – it’s been so long since I’ve heard my native language that when I experience an emotion, I only know it in the Voice’s language, and struggle to find the words that others would understand.  And the words don’t make much sense to anyone but the Voice – and me:

Anger is interpreted as “you’re fat.  Quit eating.”

Sadness translates to needing sweets.

Loneliness is deciphered as emptiness, which in this language, means “need to binge.”

Decoding stress is tricky, as it has multiple meanings; its true meaning is modified by one of the emotions above…the pairing of the modifier transposes the actual definition.  It can mean any of the above, or one followed by the other.  Much like English, it’s hard to define directly; all of the rules have exceptions.

I’m working on rediscovering my native tongue.  It’s slow going.  It’s like trying to rename colors – imagine, after years of saying that your favorite color was orange, now having to say it’s blue, even though “blue” looks like what you’ve always known as “orange.”  Or imagine having to switch the words “beet” and “chocolate.”  Or “hot” and “pickle.”  You get the idea.

But I’m making progress, somewhat.  I have, at least, begun to recognize when the Voice is using the wrong words.  This week, I spent three days eating my feelings.  In one evening, I devoured an ENTIRE BOX OF CHOCO CHIMPS.    (Side note:  What am I?  Five?  CHOCO CHIMPS?!?)

On Wednesday, after most of the box was gone, I recognized that I was upset about something.  (I hear all of you out there rolling your eyes and saying “well, duh.”)

On Thursday night, I figured out what it was:  The hubs shared with me that on a recent trip to a home-improvement store, he parked next to a person who had a bumper sticker on his car that he didn’t like – it was, of course, in conflict with his beliefs.  So he decided to confront the guy on his way in.  He told him, “You know, you have some really stupid stuff on your car.”

This apparently bugged the crap out of me.

First, the obvious.  Which is (cue sarcasm font):  Eyeroll.  Yes, dear, you sure told him.  I’m sure now he’s going to know the error of his ways, COMPLETELY do a 180 on his opinion, and probably burn his car so no one else has to see it.  All because a random 6’4″ dude confronted him directly.

Second, I don’t want a bully for a husband.  I married a decent human being, not a bully.  And the hubs was actually bullied as a kid, so you’d think he’d know better. Plus – regardless of the sentiment – would he want someone to approach ME like that?  (Okay, his answer would be, “I’d like to see them try.”  Fair enough; I can hold my own.  But our kids?  Our mothers?  NOT OKAY.)

Third – one of my favorite quotes as of late is, “The world is changed by your example, not by your opinion.” (Credited to Paulo Coelho.)  You don’t change anyone’s opinion by telling them that you don’t like it – we have teenagers, so he should know this from fairly recent experience.  Being a jerk to someone with a different opinion only causes them to justify holding onto it more strongly…namely, because they DON’T WANT TO BE LIKE YOU.

Lastly, the hubs and I disagree on a lot of things –  namely, spiritual things and political things. (We agree on pizza toppings, so we have THAT going for us, I guess.)  But I suppose, if I’m honest with myself…I don’t want him to express or FEEL that disgusted, dismissive emotion towards me.

There.  There it is.  In my native language.

Now I can put the food down.  For a little bit.

As of late, I’ve begun to recognize the Voice as a type of parasite.  Why?  Because she needs me.  She feeds off me.

Without me, she will cease to exist.

That’s probably why she’s fighting so hard to stay alive.

I’ve noticed that, right after a more successful therapy session, that I sort of relapse for a day or two…sometimes a week.  The Voice is fighting – hustling to be heard, wrestling for relevance.

Struggling for survival.

But so am I.

And, while I’ve managed most of my existence cohabiting with the Voice, I think it’s time to serve her eviction papers.  Like any eviction, it’s a long, complicated process, wrought with setbacks and delays.  But if I keep fighting the good fight, eventually I’ll have my space back.  I’m looking forward to redecorating – letting in color and light and making the space my own.

Be Careful What You Wish For

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A couple of years ago, for the first time in my entire life, I lost a bunch of weight pretty much by accident.  I was plagued by a sick stomach, and generally felt queasy for much of the day.  This was paired with some odd, dull pains in my upper stomach, bloating, and the strangest, most disturbing mushy grinding noises from my lower abdomen.  (These were actually quite amusing – often, I could generate additional noises with a well-placed poke or a brief massage.  I’d record the sounds and send them via text to my kids to gross them out.  You see what you resort to for entertainment when you stop springing for cable TV?)

This came a couple years after my marriage.  While the now-hubby and I were dating, I had admittedly packed on a few pounds, thanks to dates of late-night nachos and Molten Chocolate Cakes.  I had managed to squeeze into a size 9 wedding dress, but I was about 25 pounds heavier than I wanted to be at the time.  So the weight loss was welcome.  I lost those 25 pounds, and then ten more.  At this point, I was loving the weight loss, but figured I best check in with the doc.  You know, just to make sure I wasn’t dying of anything.

Over the next several months, I was screened for pretty much anything that can cause weight loss.  Ovarian cancer, pancreatic cancer, colon cancer.  Celiac disease.  Ulcers.  Parasites. Cat scratch disease.  Lyme disease.  Pregnancy.  (Three times.)  The results were inconclusive:  I wasn’t dying of anything, but something was effed up in my immune panel.  My doctor threw up her hands and said “try not eating wheat, see if it helps.”

During all these tests, I managed to drop a few more pounds.  I was loving wearing a size 0, loving when I’d walk into a store and everything was too big, but I was not loving feeling exhausted and ill all the time.

As I was going through this, I did learn that some foods managed to make me feel worse – particularly, foods with white flour and processed sugar.  In other words – FOODS THAT MAKE LIFE WORTH LIVING.  Twinkies.  Nutty Bars.  Fresh Italian bread.  Those Zingers with the coconut on them.  Cake. Cookies. Donuts.  CAKE.

So I quit eating those foods, and eventually gave up on wheat all together.  And occasionally, when there was an office birthday party or Donut Friday, people would ask why I wasn’t having any. (Because, if you haven’t noticed, people are freakishly interested in what you are or aren’t eating.  I mean, I could light my desk on fire and sacrifice the company’s 2012 tax records while performing an ancient rain dance, wearing only a garbage bag and Crocs, and folks would barely blink. But skip a slice of cake at a company function and suddenly you are the most interesting person on the planet and EVERYONE wants to know what the heck is up.)

So I’d tell them:  “Oh…I can’t eat baked goods.  They make me kind of sick to my stomach.”

Invariably, the response was (I bet you know it, kids, so sing along!) “Wow, I WISH I had that problem!  Then maybe I wouldn’t eat so much!”

Well. About that.

No.  No, you don’t wish you had this. You really do not.  And here is why.

Because when eating a food makes you ill – guess what?  IT TASTES JUST AS DELICIOUS AS ALWAYS.  But after you eat a couple of donuts, or a plate of pasta, about an hour later, it haunts you.  Not just in the usual way – you feel not only fat, gross, and like a complete failure because you YET AGAIN totally blew your diet…as a bonus, you ALSO feel bloated, lethargic, queasy, and drained.  You feel like you’re trying to digest a lump of wet concrete.  (Don’t try this at home, kids.  Suffice it to say it doesn’t feel great.)  So, now you have a double whammy – you can beat yourself up both mentally AND physically with just a single slice of cake!  Two for the price of one!!

Yay.

So, in this process of trying to figure out what makes me ill, after a few years of dealing with this, I’ve come to another surprising conclusion.

Sugar messes with my head.

I’ve finally figured out why I’m such a mess on Sunday nights – because on the weekends, I let my eating “relax” a bit, and indulge – sometimes it’s ice cream, sometimes it’s a gluten-free cookie. (Which generally is not the tastiest of treats, but if you MUST have a cookie, and you don’t want to bite into a flavorless mass of disappointment, try these.  Actually, on second thought, don’t. Don’t even click the link, because you won’t be able to eat fewer than four at a time.  Don’t ask me how I know this.  Moo.)

And by Sunday night, I’m a mess.  Psychologically, I’ve completely fallen apart.  I hate myself, I’m a fat slob, I need to lose ten – no, fifteen – pounds, I’m NEVER EATING AGAIN but OH LOOK SUGAR I MUST HAVE MORE SUGAR CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM CANDY BARRRRRRRRR

<ERROR:  Circular Reference in Prior Logic>

It’s a vicious cycle.  Once I eat a sugary treat, my body releases the food demons.  I’m like a sucrose vampire.  I.  MUST.  FEED.  I.  MUST.  HAVE.  SUGAR.   (I’m visualizing a tray of sugar cookies with terrified faces cowering in fear as I lurk in the shadows waiting to churn them into crumbs.)  It’s an animalistic drive; one I can only sometimes, and only barely, control.

Not only does eating sugar make me crave more sugar, but it also seems to anger those defeating voices in my head.  The voices that tell me I’m fat, and that until I lose some weight, absolutely nothing else matters.  My husband won’t find me attractive. I’ll fail at my job.  I’m a horrible mother to my kids.  And I’m fat.  Huge, wobbly, saggy, weak, worthless, disgusting, nothing.

It’s as if sugar makes the weeds grow.  They pop up and choke out all the peace and harmony I’ve tried so hard to establish and root.  They wilt the buds of hope I was so delicately trying to get to bloom.

I’ve actually tested this theory. I’ve gone for a week or two without any sugary treats, and the stability of my mood is remarkable.  Sure, there are ups and downs, but I can speak logically to myself and back away from the ledge.

Then, once I’ve indulged…well, the baboon is out of the cage.  AND HE AIN’T HAPPY BRO.  I hate myself, and won’t be worth the air I breathe until I get my weight down to 110…105…99.  But I’ll never, ever GET there because I simply cannot stop eating ice cream and kettle corn, along with any random foodstuffs that happen to be innocently lying in their paths.

It takes a few days before I can keep my head above the waves of self-loathing long enough to really be able to see the shore I so desperately want to swim to.  It takes water and clean eating and exercise and rest.  And time.

Last night, I tested myself again.  This week’s leap into the abyss featured a DQ Blizzard.  A stupid Blizzard?  Really?  Not even something GOOD like Ben and Jerry’s or Culver’s, but a lame-o crappy Blizzard?

I’m weak.  Or so the Blizzard is telling me.

I’m working so hard right now to keep the riptide from ripping off my life vest.  I ate fruit and an egg today, and chili and a baked potato for dinner.  No candy, no ice cream, even though the mean, hateful voices in my head are telling me I’d be a size 00 if I had any willpower at all while simultaneously screaming at me to GET A $&%(@$! FROSTY ALREADY.

Sigh.

Why do I keep doing this to myself?!

Because, dammit…sugar tastes good.  The bitter aftertaste doesn’t kick in right away.

It’s still delicious.

It lies.

I wish I could bottle up this feeling and sprinkle it all over all the peanut butter cups and ice cream pints on the planet.  I wish it turned them all a sickly, neon green and make them impossible to swallow.

Until then…it’s like a bad hangover.  I know, at least intellectually, that my body WILL figure this out in a couple of days, and I just have to nurture myself with good food and rest while my body works the poison out of my system.

It takes time to heal.  Things will look better tomorrow…at least somewhat.

Hang on, Kate.  Hang on.

The Warped Playback of My Own Demons

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I mentioned in my last post that I spent Easter weekend with my family, and that I had had a pretty good week, recovery-wise, until I went there.

Family is always tough.  Visiting your folks is like some sort of twisted time machine – you immediately forget what a capable, mature adult you are, and instantly regress into the persona you wore as a teenager.  In our normal, everyday lives, we’re psychologically on trend with midi skirts and fringe, but step into the kitchen of your childhood and mentally you’ve teased your bangs, popped the collar of your polo, and pegged your jeans.  I don’t know WHY this happens, but it’s pretty common.  It doesn’t make much sense, though – my psychological leg warmers were itchy, and didn’t warm the parts of me that really needed some heat….but in my mind, I’m reaching for them every time.

My childhood was, on the surface, quite tame and non-dramatic.  Two parents, married to each other.  No drugs, alcohol, teen pregnancies, or arrest records.  (Well, there was that one cousin who gave us gossip fodder at family potlucks.  But it was pretty minor stuff, relatively speaking.)  I have a sister and a brother, and our biggest issues were spending too much time on the phone (sister) and occasionally stretching curfew (me, because my siblings didn’t have one, not because Mom and Dad were unfair, but because my sibs had the sense to come home at a decent hour.)

What is clearest about my childhood (given my issues, it’s pretty obvious) is the dieting dichotomy.  We had a dual-food household – meaning, Mom dieted, and Dad did not.  We had two of everything in our fridge:  real butter and diet margarine, soda and diet soda, Miracle Whip and Light Miracle Whip, whole milk and skim.  By middle school, my brother was a bit chubby; and one of his comments was what sent me down the path of messed-up eating.  I got a bit too skinny in high school; I suppose, in hindsight, that may have been discussed by the relatives.  I remember being called down to the guidance counselor’s office once, and I fed her a complete BS line of eating healthy and exercising, and never got any more flack for starving myself.  I also remember being dragged to the doctor once.  He very helpfully encouraged me to eat more.  My blood pressure at the time was 80/40.   (Yeah, I’ll get right on that cheeseburger, doc.  Thanks for being clueless so I can continue counting how many Cheerios I can eat today without pesky interference.)

So my brother and I dutifully counted calories and watched our belts all throughout high school.  My baby sister, though….well, she was the pretty one.  Petite, blond, and blue-eyed, she ate WHATEVER THE HELL SHE WANTED and just did not gain weight.  She was a notoriously picky eater, often eschewing our family dinners for a bowl of cereal.  As she got older, she’d supplement these meals with Burger King runs, and she drank non-diet soda, and snacked on Fritos dipped in Miracle Whip.  (I am totally not kidding here.  FRITOS. And MIRACLE WHIP.  !!!!!)

Suffice it to say there was significant resentment there.  I didn’t help matters much; I found out which boys she had crushes on, and dated them.  (Yes, I realize that this makes me a horrible person.  I feel bad about this to this day.  But if I couldn’t be the pretty one, I could be the fun one, and high school boys were pretty receptive to the funny girl who was forward enough to ask them out.  I was just desperate to be pretty, to be acceptable.)  The end result is that my sister and I barely spoke for nearly eight years; we didn’t reconnect until I filed for divorce and found my voice and stopped competing/comparing myself with her and got to know both who she was, and who I was.  We actually have a pretty solid relationship now, and I’m so thankful for that.

It didn’t occur to me until I tried therapy a few years ago that perhaps my childhood wasn’t as happy as I recalled.  The only “benefit” I got from that therapist was the realization that my mom favors my sister over me.  Honestly, I think I was happier not knowing this.  Because now, every visit is punctuated with that realization.  Every slight and favor is highlighted with neon-green clarity.  It hurts my heart, and I either eat my feelings or resolve to starve so I can fade away into nothing.   This visit, I chose to eat everything in sight, because if Mom made gluten-free Chex mix and sweet potato casserole and peanut brittle, I can show her that I love her best by accepting her offerings, right?

On Sunday mornings, my folks usually go out to breakfast.  This is good for my dad, who is recovering from two strokes and a massive heart attack he had in December (he’s doing really well; not quite 100% where he was, but considering he should have died, the fact that he gets up, gets dressed, and works every day is nothing short of miraculous.)

So on Sunday, he was asking Mom when they were going for breakfast.  I was awake, as was my son.  My daughter and my sister were still asleep.  Mom got dressed and ready to go…but as we were getting our shoes on, I found out that she wasn’t going to breakfast, after all.  Why?  Because she didn’t want to leave my sister alone.  My sister, WHO WAS ASLEEP and most likely would STILL be when Mom got back.  (Plus, my daughter, who is a champion sleeper, was home too.)  But Mom decided she’d rather stay home with my unconscious sister than spend time with me.  It is what it is, I guess….but yeah, that stung.  My son and I did take my dad out to breakfast, and I cherish that time spent with him, since we really don’t know how much more time we’ll get with him.  It was just soured a bit by Mom being really obvious about preferring my sister’s company.   (And yes, she WAS still asleep when we got back.  Sigh.)

Anyway.  Back to childhood.  My sister was beautiful in high school.  (Let me clarify right here that throughout this, my sister was, and is, and will always be, beautiful.  This is more of an outline about weight….and while her weight has changed over the years, her soul has only grown, and she’s a gorgeous person and always will be.)  When she went to college, she, like so many of us, gained weight.  And, sadly, entered the club of hating her body.  I watched her gain the Freshman 15, and a few more.  She lost some weight before her wedding, but being married to a guy who loves his food…well, it’s HARD because dudes can eat a LOT and not pack on the pounds.  <whine> IT’S NOT FAIIRRRRRRRRRR  Her hubby had decided long ago that he was going to enjoy life, and if that meant he was fat, well, then, he was going to be fat.  And it’s tough to pick at a salad when the hubs is downing nachos, ya know?

About three years ago, she lost the extra weight.  All of it.  She now weighs what she did in high school.  And she is gorgeous.

The end, right?

Sadly, no.  Her struggle with her weight gave her free admission into the “I hate my body” club.  And I hate that for her.  This is a club that isn’t terribly discerning about accepting members…but once you join, it’s nearly impossible to leave.  <cue Hotel California>

I honestly didn’t realize the extent of her struggle until we were driving home on Sunday afternoon.  We made a pit stop at Dunkin Donuts, because the kids NEEDED coffee (read:  coffee-like drink laden with cream and sugar that is basically dessert in a to-go cup) and a donut (because Dunkin is THE BEST. No Krispy Kreme for this family.  Their offerings sit like a wad of lard and concrete in your gut, and who wants to eat something with the name “Krispy Kreme,” anyway?  It sounds like something you dropped jelly-side-down onto a dirt floor.  Bleck.)

My sister came into the store with me to buy a diet soda. (Don’t we always start out with that sort of good intention?)  Once she faced the rack of freshly-baked donuts, she HAD to have one.  She made her selection, and then proceeded to put on her verbal boxing gloves and give herself a prize-winning flogging.

I don’t need this.  I’ve eaten so much this weekend.

I’m not even hungry.

I’ve gone over my calories for the day and I haven’t even eaten dinner yet.

I can’t keep doing this….the fat will come right back.

And on and on and on.  It’s a song I know well; one I have memorized and perform pretty much every time I eat.   And, like any well-rehearsed performer, I wanted to sing along.  But this wasn’t the part I knew.  It was as jarring to me as putting Rhett in a dress and having Scarlett utter “Frankly, my dear….”  It was as unnerving as hearing Britney Spears attempting to channel the Rolling Stones.  (Don’t click this.  Really.  It’s bad and there isn’t enough ear bleach to scrub it out.)

But I tried.  I parroted to her the things I was used to hearing.  Enjoy it and start over tomorrow.  You’re beautiful.  It’s just a donut, not a statement of your self-worth. 

Words I’d heard, but never believed.

Words I firmly believed were true for her….but not for me.

I love my sister.  I love her so much that I wish we didn’t have this in common.

I wish there was a hypnotist or a lotion or a hug that would make the self-doubt and hate go away.   If they made a pill for this – only one – I’d give it to her with a big glass of water, and I wouldn’t leave until she downed that thing.

No one deserves admission to this version of hell.  But after hearing this from her, this thought hasn’t left my mind:  Am I causing my husband this much pain when I break out into a chorus of the same song?

I’m trying to be more aware.  Trying to censor these thoughts a bit; trying not to share every insecurity out loud.  Because maybe it’s not all about me; maybe it tears at the joy of those around me.

Maybe someday, I won’t have these thoughts at all. Maybe I’ll be OK with what I look like, even if that body has been through childbirth and a few too many chocolates and pizzas.

Maybe that gift will come with smaller thighs and a rainbow unicorn.

<sigh>

Pulverizing My Poisonous Provisions

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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.

Letting It All Go To Waist

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So let me give you a glimpse of what the insides of my thoughts look like when I’m stuck in the eating disorder vortex. I’m going to try to organize this into outline form, but it’s tough, because when you get stuck in this thought pattern, different snippets are flying at you like missiles at hundreds of miles an hour from all different directions and it’s exhausting to try to duck out of the way.

I’m currently stuck in an airport for a couple of hours with free Wi-Fi.  I have a few options to kill time:

  • I could take a brief, energizing walk, followed by a healthy snack and some Internet browsing
  • I could arrive at the airport and panic because
    1. I’m totally starving, which is an issue because
      1. I really have NO BUSINESS being hungry, because I had an ice-cream sundae for lunch – one of those enormous, ridiculous heaps of goo and glob that are simultaneously reminiscent of childhood and totally delicious – Friendly’s, I both love you and hate you for this – and the plan was to not eat for the rest of the day, and
      2. I ate TWO PACKETS of peanuts on the plane, which I’m kicking myself for – gah, two tiny packets of insignificant volume and ONE HUNDRED FORTY CALORIES, ugh, and
      3. there really aren’t any decent gluten-free options at the airport, and I’m tired and I’m stressed and
      4. CANDY CANDY CANDY CANDY
    2. Surrounded by empty wrappers, the harsh fluorescent lighting reflecting the guilt back at me like Hell’s disco ball…I hate myself.
  • Repeat the 2nd bullet above, 1-3, about six times.  Pace around for about twenty minutes while repeating this cycle.
    1. While trying to break the cycle, I realize – Hey, there’s a Wendy’s.  I can have chili.  That’s decent, right? Oh, and a baked potato.  Because potato is a vegetable, or a starch, or something, as long as it isn’t fries, and if I get it without the cheese that’d be OK, right? I know I’m over my calories for the day, but I’m supposed to not be obsessing over this stuff, and OOH LOOK CHOCOLATE <slaps self> Chili. And a potato.  NO CHEESE.  That’s too much.  This together is about 345 calories and I KNOW you ate too much today but I PROMISE this will NOT make you fat.  Yes, I know you’re already fat.  But just EAT THE DAMN CHILI so you don’t completely crash here, you’re coming off the sundae and I KNOW it feels like you’re losing your mind but I PROMISE it’s just the sugar and YES you will be OK if you eat the potato and the chili.
    2. Burn 87 calories walking through the airport.  (Yes.  I measured.  That’s what smartphones are for, after all.)  Get the freaking potato.  Get asked twice “are you sure you don’t want cheese?”  Gee, thanks.  Usually I only need enough willpower to make my order.  <eyeroll>
    3. Eat the chili and the potato.  Note that it would have been much better with cheese.  Feel virtuous at the sacrifice.  Scrape bowl thoroughly with spoon and tip dish up to face to get every last morsel.  To the horror of others waiting at gate A33, proceed to lick out bowl.  (Dude. If this isn’t your first time in the airport, undoubtedly you’ve seen weirder.  Deal.)
    4. Sit and write, because as much as you’d rather eat your feelings, you know you’ll feel better if you get some of them out.

So, to the rest of the world, I can pretend today was the first bullet – but anyone with food issues could have written bullets 2 and 3, which were my reality.

I’ve been putting off writing this week.  I had therapy last Friday, and dang it, therapy is HARD.  It’s an hour of crying, and I don’t even really know why….

Interestingly, my therapist says I do not have an eating disorder.  To which my first response was, “oh yeah?  I’ll show YOU!”  And I measured every bite I ate this week, and ran 14 miles, and was on my way to proving her wrong until I fell off the fence a bit today.

I also have some homework from therapy.  And since I go back on Wednesday, I best get started on some of it.  (I always was a pretty good student.  The pressure for straight As pales to the pressure to be thin.  In comparison, school was kind of a breeze – much easier to get an A on a paper you can finish – hand in and hand off – than to work constantly towards a goal of perfection that you can never reach.)

My homework is based a bit on what we talked about – that I was having a hard time stopping the evening binges lately.  I seem to have a need to fill the time between “home from work” and “bed” with food.  She wondered if I was self-medicating (wow.  Sorry, but duh) since I was primarily stuffing my face with carbs (kettle corn, with cheese popcorn if I’m out of the former, and chips.  This is progress, sort of.  It’d be entire boxes of cereal if I allowed myself to bring them into the house.)

We also discussed my need to finish things off – when I’m in binge mode, I can’t stop myself by throwing things away.  I have no idea why this is – I’ll be eating, and feel sick and stuffed, and KNOW I need to get away from the food because it’s no good for me – but I canNOT throw it in the garbage.  It’s baffling.  Occasionally, I can save some for later (yay!  another opportunity to binge and hate myself!) but why can’t I throw it in the trash?  It’s not like I get charged more if I don’t finish it.  No one comes to my house and fines me.  I don’t get a refund for an empty container.  Why I insist on wedging it down my pie pit is beyond me.

But I do.

So the homework was:

  1. Write in the evenings.
  2. Go for at least one evening walk with your husband each week.
  3. Change self-talk to “I don’t feel comfortable….” (instead of “fat” or “this weight doesn’t work for me”)
  4. Throw away some food.

This was a week ago Friday.  Since then, I’ve come up with some great excuses as to why I haven’t done this stuff yet.  (Hey, good excuses DO take some effort!)  I was really busy at work and didn’t get home until after 7 most nights.  And I didn’t binge once this week (today excepted, kind of.)  And while we didn’t walk in the evenings, we did go for four morning runs this week.  (Okay, okay, my prime motivation here was weight loss.  But IT TOTALLY COUNTS because a good run clears my head…right?)

Sigh.

I won’t even get in to #3.

This leaves me with #4.  Throw away some food.  When she suggested this, instantly my mind went to the remnants of my last binge:  a bag of kettle-cooked potato chips, about 2/3 empty, and a jar of the most dangerous and delicious food on the planet – dark chocolate peanut butter.  (WARNING – viewer discretion is advised.  This shiz is addictive and dangerous.  Really, don’t click this.  Just.  Do.  Not.  Go.  There.  Unless you’re one of those people who is all like, “I don’t really see what all the fuss is about chocolate,” in which case I don’t understand you and we can never be friends.  But if you’re one of those people, you probably have zero interest in this blog, anyway.)  About 1/4 of the jar was sitting there, quietly mocking me from the kitchen cupboard, just waiting for me to succumb….

So I left my appointment with those two things in mind.  Throw away the chips and the chocolate peanut butter.

Guess where they are?

Still in my pantry.

Waiting.

I did eat one and one-half ounces of chips with dinner one night.  I know I was supposed to throw them out, but look at how disciplined I was, eating just a serving and a half!  I’m a model of moderation!  I can handle this!!  So they can totally stay, right??

But there the peanut butter sits.  Untouched….but not thrown away, either.

I wonder why I can’t just…pitch it?   I’m amazed by its power over me.  A small, three-quarters-empty jar of nuts, sugar, and chocolate is holding me hostage like a mouse in a glue trap.

I have three days to carry this jar six feet from the pantry to the garbage.  So why don’t I just do it?  What am I afraid I’m tossing in the trash?  What part of me am I discarding?  What becomes vulnerable if I put this piece of armor on the compost heap?

It’s just food, after all.

<sigh>

Driving in the Wrong Direction – Where Can I Turn Around?

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Rough day today.  I’m not exactly sure where things went sideways, but it was probably halfway between Expectation and Reality, when I made that sharp left at Disappointment.

Hubby and I had a whole kid-free day together.  I wanted to do…something.  The weather’s been unseasonably warm – perfect for a bike ride or a long walk.

I cooked a crustless quiche for breakfast (OK, I’m not sure if that’s really what it is.  You beat 5 eggs, add a cup of milk, and whatever spices and veggies you want.  Maybe some cheese,  Bake in a pie plate at 350 for 45 minutes.  It’s not REALLY quiche, but doesn’t “crustless quiche” sound fancy enough to be special?)  It turned out great.  OM NOM NOM

Afterwards, the hubs decided that he’d really like to go see the automobile show.  I thought that’d be fun, actually – while I drive a sturdy Toyota, it’s fun to look at Alfa Romeos.  So I went online and got us a couple of tickets, personalized – check out our special names:

Tickets

<snort> I kill me.

The show was…nice, I guess.  We saw two cars priced at over $250k (yowsa!) as well as one with a giant, hot-pink stuffed unicorn on top of it.  (Sadly, there was no price tag on the unicorn.)

As we walked around, though, I just couldn’t help feeling like I was a million miles away from my husband.  He was right next to me, but I just didn’t feel like we were connecting.  He seemed to feel something – he even commented on how much he was enjoying just being out with me.  I enjoyed it, too, but I just didn’t feel very close to him.

Part of the reason?  Yes, he wore one of THOSE shirts.  So, although I tried to look past it, I had to walk the show next to GODLESS HEATHEN.  And to further rub lemon juice into my paper cuts, he proudly shared with me that the dude at the mini donuts counter absolutely CROWED about his shirt, and that he gets a lot of positive comments on it.  Sigh.  I’m sure you do. From everyone but your wife.  But I guess that doesn’t matter.  And I guess shouldn’t matter that people will assume I love your shirt too, if I’m with you.  But I don’t.  I hate it.  I want to burn it, and the others, in a fiery pit, after shredding them with the lawn mower.

(For the record, I did not have any mini donuts.  They smelled wonderful, and they taunted me the entire time we were there.  But I’m not supposed to eat wheat, and I know that they probably have about 100 calories each, if not more, so I only would have enjoyed them for the fifteen seconds it took me to inhale the bag.  So I refrained.)

Later, we stopped at Target to get lights and a lock for my bike.  (My knee’s been bugging me, so I was hoping I could ride on the mornings I couldn’t run.)  I suggested we go back home, grab an early dinner, and get back outside.  Bike ride, walk, something.  He wasn’t feeling it, but thought if we went home and ate, he’d perk up.

So we did that, and about an hour later, he decided he still didn’t really feel like going on a bike ride, and really wanted to work on the bathroom (he’s re-tiling our bathroom.  Which is great, and I sincerely appreciate all the work he’s doing on it….but I wanted to go outside, darn it.)  So I decided to attempt to install my bike lock.

It shouldn’t be hard, right?  it’s a bike lock, not a rocket ship.  But the course was charted now; I was in a bad mood because I WANTED TO PLAY, not work.  My bike was in the shed – this alone got my blood pressure rising.  (A little history:  last fall, hubby decided that the garage was “his” workspace, and that the bikes would be perfectly happy outside.  For the winter.  In the midwest.   I threw a fit, because it’s MY bike, and I own the garage, too, and even if he thought my bike would be fine out in the elements, I DIDN’T WANT IT THERE.  I could not understand why there wasn’t room for my bike in our garage.  He told me I was overreacting and just didn’t understand why the hell it mattered.  Well, it mattered because it was important to me, but since I couldn’t seem to explain that, the bikes were evicted from the garage.  As a compromise, they were put in the storage shed.  So going out there to LOOK at my bike reminds me that it SHOULD be in the garage…and starts the downward spiral of mad.)

I found the key to the shed – it was on hubby’s key chain.  And my temper flared yet again.  Great.  He has the only key, and it’s on his car keys – so if he’s not home, I can’t ride my bike.  And right now, THIS WAS NOT OKAY.  I wanted access to my bike 24/7, it’s MY BIKE, after all.  (Not that this has ever HAPPENED, mind you.  I’ve never felt the urge to take a random bike ride when the hubby wasn’t home.  But it could, and this. was. making. me. FURIOUS.)

Breathe, Kate, breathe.

I attempt to install the bracket for my new lock.  Of course, there were no instructions, and I actually ended up futzing with that stupid thing for a half hour before I determined that one of the nut/screw combos was defective.  There was swearing.  I believe the walls of the shed started to melt, but I can’t be sure.  There was lots of throwing things and stomping.  I gathered all the little parts so I could return the blasted thing later.

Now what?

Well, since we’re not doing anything FUN, I may as well clean up the yard.  At least I’ll get some exercise, and it has to get done sometime.  I got my tools, and for the next hour, I raked and I trimmed and I pulled.  And I got madder and madder and more and more frustrated.

Finally, two large bags of yard trash later, I put the tools away.  I went inside.

And I completely fell apart.

I hate when this happens.  In the moment, I can’t explain why I am so overwhelmingly sad – I just AM.  It’s only later, when I’m writing, that I realize it’s the disappointment and frustration I’ve been bottling in has burst out like an overshaken soda.

The hubs is usually really good about this. But when I tried to apologize – tried to say I was sorry I sometimes get this way, I was sorry I couldn’t articulate things better – he scolded me.

<sarcasm>This totally fixed the problem, and I was in a GREAT mood forever and ever.</sarcasm>

He said I shouldn’t apologize because while I was sad, I wasn’t doing anything to HIM.  But…I know my moods are tough to live with.  I know how difficult it can be when your spouse just gets in a bad place.  And I just wanted to acknowledge that.

But he scolded me.  And it hurt.  So I shut up.  And moved even further away from him than I was before.

I sat outside for a while, and decided to look at the lilacs we had planted last year.  I thought they might be budding soon.  And I discovered that the lilac in front of the house – the one that promised to sprout beautiful, deep purple blossoms in the spring – was chewed up.  It was a barren bunch of sticks.  The ends of each branch, which should have been filled with hopeful hints of spring, was bitten off.  Every single bud, gone.

Except one.

They say that lilacs are very hardy plants.  I’m told you can cut them back nearly to the ground and they’ll spring back.  So maybe, just maybe, this bush I planted last year will manage to survive.  Maybe if it still has one bud, It can grow back and be something magnificent.

I don’t feel like I have any buds left today.  I know I must…I just can’t feel them right now.  I’m just overwhelmed with sad.  And I don’t know how many more buds can snap off my marriage before someone no longer recognizes it and unceremoniously mows it down when cutting the grass.

I can put a wire cage over my lilacs.  That will give them a better chance to grow.  I’m just not sure how to protect my marriage or myself.  I don’t know how to shield my soul from all the thorns, slivers, and skinned knees that make it hard to thrive.

I’ll keep trying.  I’ll keep breathing.  And right now, that’s enough.  That will get me through until tomorrow when I can start fresh and try again.