About as mushy as a blog can get...with bad language ; )
How would you react if your husband bought you a set of bathroom scales?
For your anniversary?
'Thought you would like these to help you get back in shape, darling.'
Not looking good on the romance front in our house tonight, then 
.
Actually, my husband didn't buy me the scales. I bought them for myself.
And the anniversary?
Two days ago marked one year since I started this incredible weight loss journey - a journey back to health and back to life.
I remember very clearly the day I started. Suffering from binge eating disorder, and already overweight to begin with, I had gained 5 stone (70lb) in under 18 months. A fact I had been managing to deny to myself with at least moderate success, until I went to the wedding of my dear friend Erica. A few days later, I saw the wedding photos - the same day I hit 15 stone (210lb).
I had been in therapy for anxiety disorder and depression for a few months. I had already put in a lot of the groundwork on learning about myself needed for me to start to rebuild my life.
Despite this, I was at rock bottom. It was all very well to talk about rebuilding my life, but there didn't seem to be many raw materials left to sift from the wreckage. My world had become hemmed in by my horrific anxiety, shrinking and shrinking until it encompassed only my couch, comforter, pyjamas, tv set and, of course, a lifetime's supply of family-sized chocolate bars.
And now I bloody well weighed 15 stone.
That very day I went to see my therapist (OK, OK, was forced to go by my husband). The second I got through the door, I burst into tears. 'I have no idea what to do,' I bawled. 'But I cannot carry on like this. I have to start losing weight. Now.'
My therapist just sat and looked at me for a while. I figured she was wondering what the heck she was going to do with me. Then she told me - the only time I think she ever told me directly to do something - to go home and stop counting calories, Points, carbs, whatever. I was to eat whatever I wanted, for one week. The only rules? No added sugar, caffeine, alcohol or cigarettes. Those things just had too extreme an effect on my binges and my moods. She also ensured I was supplied with a hefty package of drugs to see my through my more nutty moments .
My husband collected me from her office, and what with my being barely functional at the time (except for an almost uncanny ability to weigh up the respective merits of various chocolate brands), we didn't have anything in the house for dinner.
I ended up standing stock still in the middle of a supermarket aisle, in a confused mess. I just had no clue what to buy. Because I had no earthly idea where I was going to go from here.
My entire life, for the past 13 years, had involved one diet or another. These plans had provided my main structure, every single day. Sure, I hadn't stuck to them. In fact, all I had done was double my weight. But perversely, even breaking diets had given some sort of structure and order to my life - after all, I was doing it every day. Once I had gone off plan, I could have an evening of relaxation and enjoyment, and start trying to sort out my life again tomorrow. I never actually followed through with any of my plans, but I believed I would - so I got through.
And now someone was telling me I had to give up that structure. I mean, 'stop dieting'? How was I going to do that?
And even if I did, I had no confidence it would work. I had no real hope anything was going to work, ever. For the first time in my over-planned, under-lived existence, I had no image of the future in my mind by which to navigate.
And yet I couldn't go back, either. I had got to the end of the road in that direction. It was turn around...or what? Lose everything.
So somehow, in my over-medicated haze, I managed to buy something and make it home, and I just started doing what my therapist said. At least for today.
And it was actually OK to stick to. Easier than a diet, anyway.
In a few days I was a little happier, a little more hopeful - and a little lighter. So I just kept going.
The lack of stimulants meant I wasn't even really hungry any more. I was feeling full, in a way I never had even with 6000 calories in my stomach.
Pretty soon I felt slightly more confident, so I started adding more guidelines to live by. Week by week I added fruits and veggies, healthy fish, good fats, wholegrains, greens...and yes, in the end I even began doing OK at counting calories. And limiting them rather than just counting them go up and up .
I kept going, and with many breaks and fluctuations, I lost 45lb in one year.
I would have liked to lose more. Why didn't I? Well, I am not going to lie. From Day One of meeting my small goals, through my first sweat-soaked 10-minute stumble round the block (you couldn't call it a walk), the first half-completed aerobics session, the first run...all the way through to seeing that 45lb lost on the scale, there have been so many small successes and triumphs and delights - achievements so satisfying they were as important to me as fitting into smaller clothes.
But it has also been bloody hard. In fact, had I known just how torturous it was going to be when I started, I would probably have stayed on the couch with the Ben & Jerry's.
I don't say that lightly. When every tiny thing in life is a reason to panic, doing, well, anything at all is a huge challenge. There have been so many times I have thought 'I can't do this', so many unplanned, unwanted binges, followed by hours of torturing myself with 'what-ifs'.
But it has been worth the agony of every time I forced myself to put down the chocolate and take a risk at doing something else - something scarier, but infinitely better. Something altogether more filling.
As the pounds have dropped off, my world has become bigger again, little by little. I have learned to enjoy life and even relish the world's incessant challenges - and my mistakes. I have gained confidence that I can live in the world, and thrive in the world, not as I think I want it to be, but as it really is. I just have to take it a little at a time.
I have to say I am still kind of mad at my therapist. When she sat and looked at me for so long that day, she wasn't trying to work out what to do with me. She had known exactly what I needed, from the first time she ever met me. She knew a 'diet' would be impossible for me to stick to, and in any case had nothing to offer me for the long-term. She knew I needed to take things in little steps. She knew that was the way I would cope, would learn, would carve out my own way of living again.
But she wouldn't actually go ahead and tell me this, would she? No, I had to blummin well learn it for myself. Ptttth.
So after that unashamedly soppy blog, where am I at the end of Year 1?
In fact, wow, I have just noted the length and general incoherence of this post. I think the rest will have to wait!
See you tomorrow then...love R xxx 
