I am working on losing weight. The first six months I was doing this, I lost 35 pounds. The last three months, I have lost one pound.
So my problem is this...at this rate it will take me exactly nine years and nine months to reach my goal weight .
Realistically, I may not get that far. My eating and exercise habits have swung so far back towards where they used to be that I am in danger of regaining all the weight I have lost, plus more. I feel totally out of control.
So why has this happened? I have put forward plenty of theories for this in my blog over the past few months. I am tired of doing so, to be honest.
I know the main reason - My Name Is Rachel And I Am A Food Addict.
I thought it had gone away. It hasn't. Six months of good habits aren't enough to tame the beast. It is lying in wait below the surface just waiting for an opportunity - stress, deadlines, nice pizza - to burst out again.
And I only need to overeat or skip an exercise session so many times before it starts to become a habit again. This habit is easy to create because it is still familiar. And it works for me - in the very short term.
When I feel terrible, food does feel like a friend in time of need. Sure, it will turn around tomorrow and stab me in the back, but better a friend like that than none at all, right?
Over the six months when I was losing so well, I didn't feel like that.
Why?
Partly, I think it was because I was taking anti-depressants. They didn't make me feel any happier - but I think they may have ironed out some serotonin issues in my brain. I may still have craved food on a psychological level, but the physical need for a boost may not have been there.
But I don't want to go back to medication right now. And I am in a much better way than I was when I started on the pills the first time.
So what other reasons are there for my previous success?
I think a big clue is right at the top of this post. I wrote 'I am working on losing weight.' The clue is in the word 'working.'
Lately, I have been kidding myself it will be easy. Want to stick to my calorie limit enough, and I will.
I have forgotten just how torturous it was when I first got started. I found it almost impossible. It was unbelievably painful. Some nights I would cry on the couch because I couldn't have a pizza.
I am going to have to go back there. And I am terrified, because I know I can't do this bit on my own. The addiction is just too strong.
So I have called in the Food Police. AKA my long-suffering husband. I need him to tell me, when I want to eat something that will make me miserable, 'no, you just can't have that.' I need him to refuse to drive to the takeaway, to take the plate out of my hands if he has to. Playing Food Cop is pretty tough on him - but he does get to wear a great outfit .
And my part of the bargain? I have to work on being honest with him about what I am eating (or he will get out the polygraph again). I have to work on not yelling at him when he is helping me. And I just plain have to work at this.
Because what's the alternative? Addiction colours every tiny part of your life. It destroys it. At the moment, I feel like I am drowning. I feel like anything, anything would be better than another day feeling like this - but feeling that way doesn't stop me going back to the food.
I know it doesn't have to be like this. Through all the torture and pain of facing up to this last time, I can still remember the amazing feeling of freedom and well-being because I was not controlled every single moment by my addiction. More than I want to be thin or want to be healthy, I just want to feel like that again.
There. It's out. It's kind of a relief finally to admit it.
It has been going on for a couple of years now. In fact, it actually started way back before I got married. It was my husband who introduced us, so I kind of blame him. I know that is lousy of me, but I do.
But I am not a bad person. I have been trying to stop, I really have. I manage to keep away for a few weeks and then, bam, I just can't hold off any longer. I always regret it. I wake up the next morning feeling so terrible and so guilty...but it doesn't stop me going back for more.
I really thought it was over this time. I had managed to keep away for about three months. I thought I might finally be able to get on with my life. And then last night my husband came home. And he brought them with him.
And yes, I felt tempted. And later that night, it happened again. And I am sorry. But it isn't my fault if he brings them home, is it?
Damn Fritos.
Why did I have to marry an American, eh? I mean, I love him from the bottom of my heart...but I swear that heart would be in much better shape had he not introduced me to the wonderful world of US snack foods. Some I liked, some I didn't, some I could take or leave. And then there were the Fritos Scoops. One taste, and I was in love.
Thinking clearly, I can admit it wasn't really my husband's fault. He may have bought the first pack, but I sure grabbed it and ran with it. Straight to the salsa jar, in fact.
For you poor, deprived British folks who have never had the good fortune to be introduced to the Frito - it is a crisp. A corn chip.
But oh, what a crisp.
That thick, curved shape.
That sublime crunch.
That delectable salty, trans-fatty goodness.
Sheer perfection.
(Apologies to Lay's if they have removed the trans-fats. Wouldn't want a lawsuit.)
On my visits to America, I would sit on my husband-to-be's bed, reading a book, munching my way through a family packet of my favourites, feeling my tiny (for the time being) waist expanding by the minute. Waiting for that sick feeling to overwhelm me, I hated myself, but I was completely unable to stop.
'Trigger foods,' that is what therapists call them. The ones you just can't eat in moderation. And chips are mine.
Once you pop, you can't stop. One is too many, and ten is not enough, as they say. Though I am not sure they were talking about Scoops.
Anyway, I had pretty much accepted that, since I started my healthy lifestyle, Fritos were very much Off The Menu. Along with Triscuits (just don't ask me about those). And Pringles. Did you try the ones with Olestra? Only I could still exceed my calorie count on those. And boy, that wasn't a good night.
Errr...moving swiftly back to the Fritos.
On the few occasions I caved and bought a bag, usually for a long car trip, I carefully counted out one serving size. Those servings are always too small. Ten chips? Ten? You expect me to stop at that when there are about 200 in the packet?
Still, against all the odds, all common sense and all empirical evidence, I clung to the belief I would stick with the ten. Definitely.
But, of course, I would have finished my serving before we left the store car park. After a few minutes, I would furtively unroll the top of the packet and sneak out a couple, hoping no one would notice. And by the time I arrived at my final destination, well let's just say the Fritos had reached theirs as well. They were probably happy - destiny fulfilled and all that. I definitely wasn't.
Fritos and I have a complicated, messy history. We don't do well together - but I keep coming back for more.
'Unhealthy dependencies,' that is what therapists call them. The dangerous attractions you just can't shut off. And chips are mine.
But gradually, I have weaned myself off buying them. I have tried to develop more functional relationships. With apples and yogurt, mainly. They are kind of boring, by comparison. But they are better for me.
Things have been going OK. But whenever I see that familiar blue and yellow packet on the supermarket shelf, I am filled with joy. Just for a moment. Before it hits me. They aren't mine, not anymore. And then the longing sets in. It is almost overwhelming. But, so far, I have managed to resist.
I have been trying so hard to forget the Fritos. So imagine how I felt when, last night, my husband turned up with a bag.
It really wasn't his fault. He had a friend coming over. It was reasonable to assume the friend would not be interested in almonds, dried apricots and soy nuts. And that is pretty much all our house usually has to offer in the way of snack foods. And, more to the point, I had never confessed to my poor spouse exactly how far my relationship with Mr Scoop had progressed.
When my husband showed up with the packet, I was thrown into turmoil. I had thought I was over it, but one glimpse of that bag and all my old feelings came flooding back, as strong as ever. It looked good. And even though we had been apart for so long, I knew if I went back, it would still be perfect.
I sat there for what seemed like hours, trying to forget the temptation, reminding myself I already had a perfectly good meal plan. Why go out for Fritos when you can have soy nuts at home?
I refused to look at the packet. But I could feel it staring at me.
And then I started thinking, what if someone else got them? I didn't think I could bear that.
I couldn't keep pretending to myself. It was only a matter of time before I cracked. And I knew it.
So my decision was made. I was going to cheat on my diet plan. Sure, I felt guilty, but I just couldn't resist.
But I had to be sneaky about this. I couldn't have everyone else know how I felt. Imagine being caught with my hand in the packet. What would my husband and his friend think? Anyone in their right mind could see I was not a woman who should be consorting with Fritos.
So I was sly. I fetched a bowl. I counted out...you guessed it...ten chips. After all, I could always have more later, when no one was around.
I sat down with them. And I started eating them. And I ate them all. And they were good.
Well, no, actually, they were kind of...too thick. And salty. And fatty.
It was strange. I wasn't sure what to think.
After all this time, all that longing, they weren't what I remembered at all. They seemed, well, kind of unhealthy. You know, I hate to say it, but I kind of think...I might be over them. These days, I have too much self-respect.
Soy nuts, well, they may not be that exciting. They may not have the sexy packaging or the forbidden lure. But you know where you are with a soy nut.
It isn't going to wreck your life. It isn't going to leave you feeling sick when you wake up in the morning. It gives you what you need.
So I can finally say, hand on heart, I don't need the Fritos any more. I couldn't have reached this point if I had been seeing them every day. But by keeping a bit of distance, just for a while, I have broken free.
I can finally have them in my house without feeling too tempted. And that's why I am now able to go and check the (almost full) packet and tell you that no, in fact, they do not contain trans fats. Just plain old saturates. So that's a relief.
I can finally let someone else have them.
And me? I'll go back to my old, reliable meal plan. I may dip in to the chips occasionally, just for old time's sake, but now I'm not in love, perhaps it's not so wicked after all.
Well, I have let one meal ruin my plans many, many times.
When I was in college, I would look forward to coming home for the summer and spending lots of time with my old friends. I would phone them excitedly and make a date to go to the bar, the park, wherever.
And then, the night before the date, I would overeat. I would wake up the next morning feeling bloated and puffy-eyed. I would cringe in horror at the thought of my friends seeing me like this. And I would cancel.
Simple formula. And I did it over and over and over again. Whole four-month summer breaks would go by when I would see my friends maybe one third of the times I had planned. In the case of friends who hadn't seen me since I gained weight, I would just avoid calling them in the first place.
And sure, I was miserable. I would sit at home on those long summer evenings with my tv shows, knowing my friends were all out there having fun, enjoying events I had been looking forward to and planning for for days. I would draw the curtains in case they walked past on the way to the bar. If they saw me, they would know I wasn't sick, like I had said. Worse, in my mind, they would see me looking terrible.
After a while, I got a reputation for being unfriendly and unreliable. And, of course, I would comfort myself with more food - ensuring the next night would be a no-no, as well.
I wanted to feel able to go out, so I tried not to overeat, I really tried - but the pressure of feeling I couldn't meant I binged about every three days.
I look back now and I feel so stupid.
Because I wasn't even overweight - I would guess I weighed about 130 pounds at this point. I looked fantastic. The reason I didn't want to go out was the one pound or whatever I had gained overnight - how daft is that?
But more than that - why would my friends have cared? They just wanted to see me. Overeating was not a reason not to go out. In fact, going out would have made me less likely to overeat, killing two birds with one stone.
And I wasted so much. I didn't see some friends for literally years and years because I didn't want them to know I gained weight. I always thought weight loss was just around the corner, so cancelling once didn't seem to matter. But all those last-minute phone calls added up.
However, feeling silly about the past doesn't stop me wanting to repeat the pattern now. Pretty much every day in fact.
Except now the stakes are higher. This time, I definitely look bad. This time, I am not trying to lose a pound or two before I see people - I want to lose 35.
But luckily (or unluckily, depending on my mood), I just can't do it any more. I have too many responsibilities to start cancelling plans left, right and centre. Sure, I can stop seeing my friends - to a limited extent. But I can't cancel a bridesmaid's dress fitting. I can't tell my husband he can't have his friends over to visit because I ate an extra cupcake or 10 last night.
So I get on with it. And yes, sometimes I go into these events feeling bad about myself. But at least I have a life.
But I still haven't truly learned my lesson. I don't really understand that overeating is not a good reason to cancel a social arrangement. I still don't really see that spending time with my friends is more important than how slim or otherwise they think I am.
Nevertheless, these days I force myself to put a smile on and go out, at least most of the time. Because life is not a dress rehearsal. I look back and see years and years when I didn't enjoy myself as much as I could have because of something that didn't even matter.
I don't regret weighing more than I wanted. That simply doesn't matter anymore.
Instead, I regret all those nights I spent in front of the tv, watching other people's dramas instead of having my own.
So however much you hate the way you look, never, ever miss out on anything because of your weight. You will come to regret it far more than your extra pounds.
I am never happy. Whatever is going on in my life, I always manage to find something to worry about.
Losing 40 pounds? Well, yes, that is ostensibly a good thing...but it wouldn't do to be pleased about it for more than about two minutes before finding the negative side.
Honestly, I am not a pessimist. It is just that my base state is 'nervous wreck.' I am used to it. It may not be happiness, but it is what feels comfortable to me.
One day, in that magic 'happy ever after' future we all dream of, I might be able to relax. But in the meantime, if I am not worrying about what is on the horizon, then I feel something, somewhere in my universe, is very wrong. Perhaps, I start to think, there is something extremely urgent that I have forgotten. If I don't remember what it is, and pretty darned fast, then something horrific is bound to happen, very soon.
But it's OK. My periods of relaxation never last very long.
Normality has been resumed. It only took me about half a day to move from 'Can I ever lose weight?', through 'Wow I have lost weight!', and right on to my newest obsession.
Not like I did before I gained the weight, I'll be bound.
You see, when I was 23 I had a beautiful body. I absolutely loved it.
Pah. Who am I trying to kid. I loathed it. I hated it with a passion. Because it was Too Fat.
Looking back (with the benefit of some very thick rose-tinted glasses)it is a different story. I wasn't fat - I weighed 140 pounds. But more than that, I had a really lovely figure, that I never noticed or thought about. I just took it for granted. I had lovely boobs that were large but, miraculously, still managed to stick out straight and not sag. I had pretty, toned legs. I had arms that looked perfectly fine in a tube top.
Sure, there were things about myself I didn't like. But there was always hope. I knew if I just went on a diet for three weeks, and washed my face every night, and learned to do my makeup properly, I would look pretty hot.
And of course, I was always going to do that at some point. I just never got around to it.
And then I gained a lot of weight. And now I have lost half of it. All through, there was the idea that one day, I would start looking like I was meant to.
And that was very important to me. After all, our society puts a great deal of currency in personal appearance.
We grow up with our identity so firmly anchored in how we look. If we get a certain reaction in life because people think we are pretty, often that becomes a big part of the way we see ourselves. So when we start to look different, or when people stop noticing us or, worse, are disgusted by us, it is a big shock. Because somehow it felt like this was never going to happen to us.
When I was more attractive, I got better service in stores. I was more welcomed by my husband's male friends. I even did better in job interviews. A small part of this was, no doubt, related to my attitude. But not much.
And it seems like things are getting more difficult. Watch a 1980s film and you might be shocked by just how 'normal' the actresses look. But these days, like many women, I struggle with being surrounded by images of 21st century actresses who, let's face it, are looking pretty darned hot. It leaves me feeling helpless, jealous and bitter. I can't have a $1000 dollar facial every day for a month before a big event. I can't have 20 surgical procedures a year. And I have to think realistic - yes, I might win the lottery, but even then, I am really no good with needles .
Ok, so I have realised for a long time now that I am never going to look quite like Jessica Alba. But I still believed it was only a matter of time before I got a really great figure. All I had to do was lose the weight.
As I lay in the bathtub last night, 40 pounds lighter, with what remains of my boobs tucked comfortably into my armpits, I finally accepted I am never getting that body back.
I am just finding out that, sometimes, you make mistakes in life that simply cannot be put right. Ever. Gaining and losing 75 pounds changes your body. A lot. Extensive plastic surgery aside (and that doesn't give great results anyway), there is absolutely no way I can get the figure I want.
The stretch-marked hips, the spaniel's ears (that is boobs for any lucky soul who hasn't yet passed the age of 23), the cellulite-coated legs? They are here to stay. And when I have lost another 35 pounds, it is going to be a lot worse. And for goodness' sake, I am only 26. By all rights, I should still have plenty of years of strutting my stuff in a bikini ahead of me.
I feel completely trapped in the body I have now. It doesn't feel like mine. And I don't know how to live in it.
And even more painful than how I feel, is how I imagine my husband might feel. There is no way I can give him back the woman he married. He has got this one instead. He didn't choose her, but that is what he has got. I torture myself trying to work out how he sees me. Because surely he is as disgusted as I am?
So what on earth do I do now?
I can't change what I have done to myself. There is no way I can go back and shake my 23-year-old self and say 'Lay off the donuts. And by the way. This is as good as it is ever going to get. And you look pretty good. So stop wearing clothes a size too small, and make the most of it.'
If I can't change this, there is no point dwelling on it. It isn't going to help, and it isn't going to make me feel any less trapped or any less disgusting.
I have to grow up and actually make decisions as to how I can improve this as best I can, and then live with it. Because in ten years I shall no doubt be looking back and saying 'I looked so good. I wish I could go back and tell myself this is as good as it is going to get.'
So, I am trying to Think Positive.
I have lost 40 pounds. I have done an amazing thing for my body and my health. Realistically, all the exercise I do means my body is actually a pretty good shape. The only thing I really hate is my boobs.
And I have to get this in perspective. I look OK in clothes. And out of them...well the only thing that matters to me is that my husband still finds me attractive. He says he does. I don't believe him, I think he is just being kind, but that is my problem, not his.
But the most important - and most challenging - thing I have to learn is how to gain a healthy level of self-esteem that is not related to the way I look. And that is hard, because it goes against everything I have been taught is important, from the very first time some well-meaning person said to me 'My, don't you look pretty today?'
So how do I do this?
Well, first I have to stop buying 'People' and 'USWeekly' and all the other magazines filled with unattainable images of beauty. They just leave me in a foul mood. They aren't exactly what I want to be reading anyway.
More difficult, I need to put this behind me and think more about my other goals in life - finishing my book next month, getting it published, being a good wife and friend.
I have to focus on what is important. And I have to start enjoying my life right now. Because I have spent the last 15 years feeling stressed out the whole time. I have spent every single day feeling I wasn't really living - that I wouldn't be living properly until I was slimmer/more beautiful/more perfect.
The sad thing is, when I look back on those 15 years I do appear to have had something of a life. During that time I have grown up, had my first kiss, had my first drink, been to college, travelled the world, tried lots of different jobs (including my 'dream job'), fallen in love, got married, and celebrated my first and second anniversaries.
I also happen to have gained and lost some weight.
Looking back, those 15 years are full of incredibly happy memories. But I don't think I have actually felt happy, at the time, on more than a handful of those precious days.
Because whatever has been going on in my life, I have always found something to worry about. My life has not been the way it should be. But it has felt OK, because I have always been sure that magic 'happy ever after' time was just around the corner - I would get up tomorrow and, finally, it would all come together. I would be beautiful. I would be perfect. I would be happy.
And it has taken me a full 15 years - and some extremely saggy boobs - to come to my senses.
That happy ever after is never going to come.
I am never going to get the perfect body. And I am never going to get the perfect life. By pinning all my hopes on it, I am ignoring changes I need to make today.
We can't pin our hopes on how life will be when things change - when we are thinner, or richer, or neater, or whatever. Because if we get there, we will find something else to worry about. And whether we get there or not, then twenty years from now what are we going to remember? Our extra pounds - or our friendships, our weddings, our child's first steps?
A friend of mine said a few months ago 'Only God is perfect.' And she was right. The rest of us have to accept life the way it is. We bear the marks, the scars and, yes, even the stretch marks and sagging boobs, showing where we have been, the mistakes we have made, the battles we have fought and the lessons we have learned. We should be proud of those marks - they are part of what makes us who we are.
We have to stop thinking about the past - either with false nostalgia or with hatred. We have to stop thinking about the future and forget about trying to be perfect in areas of our lives which simply do not matter all that much.
We have to focus on what is important. We have to enjoy what we do have and concentrate on being happy today.
Firstly, apologies if this blog is rather inarticulate. I have an absolutely crushing migraine and am about to go to bed. I wasn't going to come on here at all today, but I feel I shall explode if I don't let you all know...today I reached FORTY POUNDS LOST!
Ok, so I made it here before, in January, for about a week...but hand on heart I know it was only because my scale battery was running out of juice.This time there is no trick of the scales, and it feels really good.
It really is such an achievement. Because it was such hard work. Not the physical actions of healthier eating and exercising, but the sheer mental battle of it has been murderously difficult.
I was so close to giving up forever, and I have lost forty pounds. And I am no different from anyone here, I don't find it one bit easier. I have anxiety disorder, and depression, and binge eating disorder, and OCD, and PCOS, and an overweight family, and a sedentary job, etc etc etc.
So if I can do it, anyone can. Anyone who tells themself they can't is just cheating themself.
Ah well...only 35lb more to go now! But that's OK. My next mini goal is just to get into the 160s...it could be tough...I have one whole quarter of a pound to go to get there.
On the one hand, I adore browsing through cookbooks, making my list for the week. I love seeing our healthy food lined up on the supermarket conveyor belt.
It hasn't always been this way. In fact, it only started about nine months ago, when my husband and I started to take our health seriously again. One day we were standing in line at the supermarket and he turned to me. 'It's happened,' he said. 'We've become one of those families.'
'What are you talking about?'
'You know, those couples we used to laugh at. The ones with the unprocessed, wholegrain, organic everything. The ones with the posh dark chocolate and all the veg and no junk food. The health freaks.'
I studied the conveyor belt. More than half our space was filled with fresh fruit and vegetables. For a woman who refused to eat peas until she was 25, there was an alarming amount of green. There was soya milk, organic yogurt, brown rice, houmous, nuts, dried apricots (sulphur free, of course) and wild Alaskan salmon. And yes, there sat the 85 per cent cocoa dark chocolate.
It was true. We had indeed become one of those families.
But I don't mind. I love my healthy conveyor belt. I love taking the food home and putting it all away.
Having the kitchen safely stocked pushes some of the most basic human 'happiness' buttons. And as a food lover (and a picky one at that), I love having a wide choice for dinner that night. But it is more than that. For me, those freshly laden shelves represent boundless possibility. It is a bright new start. No matter what dietary transgressions I have committed in the past seven days, there is still the chance for this week to be perfect.
So where does the hate part of all this come in? Well, you might have noticed that in that little ode to shopping, I missed out one important stage. The actual shop.
Ugh. I hate going to Asda (for the Americans, Asda is owned by Wal-Mart, so I am sure you know where I am coming from). I hate myself for going there instead of to my local stores because it is cheaper. I hate myself for going there despite sending them a complaint a few weeks ago insisting I would never set foot through their doors again. And I hate the whole Asda shopping experience.
The store itself is comfortable enough. However, fill it with 3,000 harassed Saturday morning shoppers and their screaming offspring, and those brightly lit doors become a portal to the very bowels of Hell.
One would imagine an English supermarket to be a very pleasant place indeed. Our politeness and willingness to wait our turn are, after all, world-renowned. One might picture customers smiling and waving each other forward. 'Please, madam, I am sure you were an inch in front of me on your way to the butter beans.' 'Oh no, sir, please do go ahead and help yourself to your jar of pickled walnuts.'
On second thoughts, all this might take rather a long time.
In any case, it isn't like that. We English have to have an outlet for our years of repressed rage. And we do, in fact, have at least two. One is on the road - the English are some of the most aggressive drivers around. The other is at the supermarket.
As islanders, personal space is important to the English. And the average English shopper treats their shopping cart, and the area around it, as an extension of themself. Woe betide anyone who enters their (now greatly enlarged) personal space - or dares to impede their passage.
After two minutes in Asda, other people are not merely fellow shoppers who, for the most part, are simply trying to select their groceries while causing minimum inconvenience to themselves and anyone else. No, they have become evil, selfish, *******s, the rudest people, in fact, one has ever come across.
This belief cemented, there is no end to the tactics people will employ to get their salad off the shelf first. Baleful glares, comments like 'Can you believe the cheek of her?' made deliberately within earshot of the offending party, and even the odd 'accidental' ramming of the shopping cart into someone's legs are all commonplace.
And the polite customers - the ones who try to stand back and let others go ahead? By breaking all the rules they somehow seem to cause more chaos. I started my adult life as one of those customers. But now, I won't even stop to let a wheelchair user pass. Because I know it would cause a five-cart-pileup, and quite frankly I can't face all the swearing.
After 10 minutes in Asda I am usually ready to kill a lot of people, preferably with something quick and neat - like a nuclear bomb. So imagine my horror when this Saturday I found something newto drive me up the wall.
It was, in fact, the Easter eggs. Inoffensive enough, to someone who isn't already experiencing Aisle Rage. I know it is nearly Easter. I know the stores will be selling eggs - in fact, they have been selling them since 6am on December 26. But what I can't quite understand is why they are selling large family sized Easter eggs for £2.
£2 is nothing.You know those women who buy Easter eggs for their entire family and then eat them all, and have to buy another lot? Well, now women I know are buying an egg a week, just because they are cheap. Gone is the pretence they are for the big day. They are, in fact, a snack to guzzle in front of CSI.
I have nothing against Easter eggs. I don't see much wrong with munching your way through an entire egg and the accompanying two bars of chocolate all in one hour. It isn't going to make or keep you fat - as long as it is only once a year. And there is the problem.
When I switched to a healthier diet, I actually saved money. I shopped once a week instead of every day, I cut out most of the takeaways and the trips to the late night shop. But for a lot of people, buying healthier foods is more expensive. So why can't Asda take some of the money they lose on all the junk food offers, and make the apples cheaper? (Apart from the fact it wouldn't get people into the store in quite the same way).
I mean, for goodness' sake, even the 'healthy' offers are all on fake healthy food - fat free yogurts that are full of sugar, multigrain cereals that really contain about one per cent wholegrain.
After that, I couldn't stop noticing things that made me seethe.You know the frozen food aisles of supermarkets? Well, in Asda a full half of one of those aisles - about 40 feet by my reckoning - was labelled 'chips' (fries). The 'vegetable' section took up less than 15 feet.
But it's OK. There's no need to panic, because once you have taken full advantage of all these fantastic foods, you can simply pop to the George clothing section. There you can buy clothes which have grown over the last couple of years so they are now approximately two sizes bigger than it says on the label. This means you can eat all those Easter eggs - and still feel slim.
By now, we are at the end of our shop. And I haven't exploded yet.
The checkout woman is very nice. Well, she would be. She has clearly been chosen for this very reason. You can tell by her badge. 'I am Amanda,' it states. 'I am Happy to Help.'
Now, I am sceptical about this. Queuing and polite chat about the weather aside, one thing for which England is not renowned is its customer service. In addition, I have worked in a shop. And the absolute last thing I would have been, faced with a store full of surly customers desperate to get home and watch the big game (which I, incidentally, was going to miss), was Happy to Help. Perhaps that is why I switched to journalism. I could be as nasty as I wanted and I wouldn't get fired, I would get a raise.
The Wal-Mart corporation has come up with a clever way of making recalcitrant English employees co-operate with its customer service policy. It is The Badge. Pin on The Badge, and your normal personality will be subsumed instantly. You will become a Customer Service Robot. 'You will,' intones the god of Asda middle management, 'be Happy To Help.'
But this week something strange happens. The woman serving us really is lovely. She chats. She makes me smile. She makes me laugh. Perhaps I have been unfair. Could it be? I am about to end my weekly food shop in...wait for it...a good mood. I am almost bowled over by shock.
But it is not to be. Another couple has lined up a cart behind us. They are unloading 20 bags of frozen chips onto the conveyor belt. I notice the man is giving our shopping the once over. He nudges his partner. And then I hear it.
'Look,' he whispers. 'It's one of those families.'
This morning I wanted to work out my BMI, something I do every month. For the first time I used the EP BMI calculator to do so.
Well, I have been very overweight for a long time now. When I work out my BMI, I am used to seeing 'LOSE WEIGHT NOW, LARDBUCKET, BEFORE YOU EXPLODE ALL OVER THE PLACE!' emblazoned across the screen. Or that is how I interpret it anyway.
Why are those warnings always in huge red upper case letters? I mean, we aren't daft. We know we need to lose weight. We know it's urgent. Is it really necessary for our coworker six desks away to know as well?
As you may have gathered, I am none too keen on these sites.
So imagine my delight to see the little gem the EP BMI calculator came up with to describe me:
'Marginally overweight.'
Whoo hoo! Oh yeah! I am looking skinny!
Well, let's not get carried away. I mean, I am fairly sure 'marginally overweight' is not an official BMI category. And in my opinion, 23 pounds over the top acceptable weight for your height is not 'marginal'. In fact, according to the blood pressure monitor, it is pretty darned scary.
However, just to see that, in someone's system, that is where I fall now, was a fantastic boost.
Particularly as this morning I have fallen victim to The Terrible Lure of the Slim Fast.
This debilitating affliction tends to hit me once every few months, usually when I have an 'important' day of some kind coming up in about a week. You know the ones, the kind of events for which it is vital you shed 50 pounds in the next five days.
Slim Fast wields a great emotional power over me. Every time I walk into the supermarket and see those rows of shimmering cans, those neatly stacked boxes, I am filled with an overwhelming sense of hope.
Simply put, I love being on Slim Fast. The delicious milkshakes, the feeling of complete satiety after every meal, the sure knowledge you are giving your body everything it could ever need.
Alright, I am joking.
I hate it. I hate it beyond measure. I hate the taste. I hate the way my workday feels that little bit more boring without a 'real' lunch. I hate the way it makes me crave fruit, vegetables and nuts, and most of all I hate the way that after a couple of days I am about ready to gnaw off my own arm just to taste something savoury.
But...it does give a speedy result. Very tempting when you have been going a little overboard on the cheese/chocolate/intravenous drips of pure lard lately.
So what particular 'special event' has inspired my latest compulsion to spend $50 on glorified milkshakes?
Drum roll please...this time next week I shall be at The Second Of Three Fittings For A Bridesmaid's Dress.
It's a bit of an anticlimax, I know. I am well aware that, beyond vanity, there is no real need for me to lose weight for this. The dress already fits - sort of. Where it doesn't, it isn't due to my weight. It is due to the fact that dressmakers in China apparently have difficulty with the concept of a 34F bosom.
OK, so at the last fitting I did proudly tell the dressmaker I would be about half a stone lighter by the next appointment. The fact I am actually about half a pound lighter isn't going to bother her. She won't notice, she won't care. I am sure it happens all the time.
But vanity, you know, is a pretty compelling reason in itself. It is, I must admit, my primary reason for losing weight. All those other things - being healthy, being able to run around after my kids - well they are all great in themselves. But they are nowhere near as important as how small my butt looks in a pair of skinny jeans .
So I have fallen into my usual pattern. Yes, I need a new Plan.
One very appealing option is to spend the next week indulging in a dream of creamy chocolate milk and, err, slightly stale tasting cereal bars. With a balanced 500 calorie dinner. By the fitting, I might be a whole two pounds or so lighter than I would have been otherwise.
Or not. You see, I haven't yet told you the full truth about my Slim Fast obsession.
You would be forgiven for thinking I have previously lost vast amounts of weight while sticking to this plan.
And indeed I have.
But the thing is, I have never been able to stick to it for more than five days.
Slim Fast makes me grumpy. And hungry. And tired. With a headache. And I end up getting to the end of Day Six and thinking, 'Well, I'll just have one evening off and then get back to it tomorrow. I won't eat any of the snacks for about a week, because they didn't used to be included in the plan, so you obviously don't need them. And I can make up the calories that way. All the calories in this pizza.'
And that is pretty much the end of that. So I end up losing about the same as I do any other week on my normal plan. The only thing significantly lighter is my wallet.
Of course, I am perfectly capable of sticking to Slim Fast for a full week. But the reality is, I don't do it because I don't want to. Even when I am just starting out, all fired up by the thought of the seven different kinds of snack bar (ingredients: sugar and vitamins), I have nagging doubts. I know this plan isn't healthy for me. I know it isn't sustainable. I know I will miss my favourite foods. Heck, who am I trying to kid, I will miss any food.
If I had only one piece of weight loss advice to share, it would be this: If you have these kinds of doubts when you start your health plan, don't bother. By the time you get to Day Six, those minor misgivings will have burgeoned into monstrous roadblocks covered with huge red upper case letters yelling 'THIS ISN'T GOING TO WORK! ORDER A PIZZA NOW AND START AGAIN TOMORROW, LARDBUCKET!'
Now faced with that, I know I won't stick with a plan I hate.
To do that, I would have to hate myself. I would have to think I was so fundamentally hideous at my current weight that I had to do something quickly - even if it was torture and even if it harmed my health and impaired my long-term weight loss.
And I don't hate myself. I certainly used to. That is why I got so overweight. Why would someone who liked themselves stuff themselves with so much food they thought they would throw up? Eat so much they virtually stopped living?
To lose weight, it really helps if you like yourself now - or can start trying. Because sorting out your life involves hard work. To be bothered to do it, you have to know the reasons you gained weight and the reasons you feel out of control are not your fault and that they do not make you disgusting. You have to feel enough concern for yourself that you are willing to take the time gradually to learn other coping methods, so you are not abusing yourself in a way you wouldn't abuse your worst enemy. You have to recognise that your life today is just as important as your life will be when you are slim - and eat accordingly.
The one good thing Slim Fast has done for me is made me appreciate my normal diet. I can lose weight, and still eat the foods I love. 'Pizza?,' you might ask. 'Curry? Doritos and cheese dip? On a weight loss plan?'
Sure, those used to be my favourite things. I still enjoy them from time to time (except the cheese dip. Ugh). But my favourite foods today are smoothies, nuts, pasta with tomato sauce, chicken sandwiches, oatmeal, spinach, avocado and houmous.
I have eaten them often enough to come to love the way they taste, and I also love what they do for my body. I love the way I can eat large portions of them and still lose weight. I love the way that for the first time in my life I feel properly full after meals. And I love how energised I feel after a few weeks of eating them.
The wedding at which I am a bridesmaid is four weeks today. I could spend those weeks obsessing about losing, at the most, seven pounds. I could eat cardboard food, feel so hungry I can barely exercise, and end up looking ever-so-slightly slimmer in my dress, but grey and spotty with wasting muscles and dull hair. That is if I haven't actually gained weight through feeling so deprived.
Or I could forget about weight and think about treating myself well with the sort of food that I love and that gives me glowing skin and the energy to work out. I might lose a couple of pounds. The downside? I might, possibly, be slightly less happy with how I skinny I look in someone else's wedding photos. But at least I would get four weeks of feeling happy and healthy on the way there.
Those milkshakes are going to have to stay on the shelf.
I am up at 7am. I am dressed in black pants, a black shirt and a glitzy gold cardie. I am wearing lipgloss. My hair is piled up in a sexy bun, all soft curls and escaping tendrils. I am ready to face the day ahead.
The one problem? I haven't had a shower. It took me all my energy just to put the clothes on.
If you look closely, there are traces of yesterday's mascara crusted around my eyes, and my hair is actually more just-come-from-bed than come-to-bed.
Still, with a little distance, I look pretty hot. And that's OK. The person I need to impress isn't going to be coming too close.
Yes, that's right, all this is for the benefit of the Toys'R'Us delivery guy.
Now don't get me wrong. I am a very happily married woman. I don't really want to impress him (and, given the state of my mascara smudges, that is probably a good thing).
No, it's just I cannot bear for him to show up (with the long-awaited PS3) and see me the way I normally look at 10am. He might think I am lazy.
Don't get me wrong. I am not naturally a slob. Or at least I wasn't BM (that's Before Marriage).
I used to head out to work every day in a suit and 3-inch heels (and I work in a small town in the middle of nowhere. At the beach).
It was not unknown for me to blow dry my hair while it was still dark. To do an aerobics session and pay a few bills before work.
Yes, at one point, I used to get my life together before 9am.
Oh, how things have changed.You see, these days, I work from home.
Working from home involves...wait for it...self-motivation. It's an elusive thing. The last time I had to get a handle on that slippery little customer was in college. And let's just say I didn't get the grades I could have.
These days, however, self-motivation holds more value for me. Because I have to pay the bills. And after much trial and error, I have discovered the only way to do anything when you work for yourself is to trick yourself into it.
If I got up and actually thought about everything I was going to do that day, I would be overcome with horror. And then I would get right back into bed with a copy of Cosmo and a large brandy. Ok, so it would probably be a family-sized bar of chocolate (my preferred vice). Either way, it wouldn't end well. Believe me, I know from experience.
So now I find it works better not to allow my brain to function above the most basic level until at least noon. Most mornings I get up just before 7, rake a comb through my hair and throw on some old track pants. I might find time to feed the cat if he's lucky . But no more than that before I grab some cereal and a bottle of water and get straight on with some work.
Forget about exercise. Forget about showers. My job stresses me out. If I allow myself enough time to wake up properly, I will find a reason not to sit down and do it.
There's a spot in the microwave? I'd better clean the kitchen.
Ooh, a new recipe site. Baking day...
I'll just check my message board. Someone is having a crisis. Agony aunt time...
But by doing the bare minimum when I get up, preferably on autopilot, I do manage to sit down at my computer and actually spend the morning at work (bar a few breaks for the odd quest on World of Warcraft, but that is highly productive in itself).
I achieve a lot this way. I am, of course, occasionally distracted by the thought someone might pop round and I would have to hide under the desk to avoid them seeing me in my dishevelled state, but generally it works pretty well (although the postman may be sceptical about the number of times I am sick. 'Sorry, I have the flu,' I mutter as I take the parcel, trying to hide my panda eyes and oversized Reese's Peanut Butter Cups t-shirt).
Anyway...it works OK.
Then about lunchtime, I head to the kitchen in search of food. At this point I invariably notice the dust bunnies/dirty laundry/piles of assorted rubbish defacing my otherwise pristine home (hmm). So I think, 'Well I'll just tidy up for about five minutes while the kettle boils'.
About an hour and a half later, I stop. And the house is looking pretty good. And I haven't resorted to magazines/chocolate/daytime tv (it's all about navigating the minefield).
After lunch, it is back to work for a couple of hours, before I start to panic. Hubby will be home at 5, and I still haven't brushed my teeth. Now I have never been a close follower of The Good Wife's Guide, but I do know you aren't supposed to let your husband see you in his track pants with smelly breath. Or not every night anyway.
So that is usually enough to spur me on to a quick jog on the treadmill or an aerobics DVD, and then a shower, and then, yes, at about 4pm I actually get dressed properly for the day.
Then it is back to the computer, and before I know it, I have actually done a full day's work without talking myself back into bed.
So why am I analysing this? Ok, I admit, I don't know. I sat down to write about my weight loss, began to detail my morning, and all this came out. Bet you are all delighted.
However, there is a deeper reason too. Because Life Is Changing. Once I have finished my latest project, I am thinking, quite seriously, of going back to The Office. How will I cope in a world where people turn up in suits, lunches packed, makeup done and ready to go...at 8am?
To avoid the initial shock, I am thinking of maybe starting more of a proper routine again, in preparation. But I am wary. You know, this is working pretty well for me. And I wouldn't want to end up in bed with a drink.
In the World of Weight Loss...I am only half a pound heavier than I was before my binge the other day. Not too much damage, and as yet I haven't had an official wi, so I might have undone this by then.
I wanted very badly to overeat again yesterday and the day before. But I didn't. For this, I have to thank Rachel211 for her wise words to me after my binge. She said (and I hope she doesn't mind me quoting):
'It will happen again - but maybe the way you felt this morning will lead to more healthy choices in the future. Like maybe yesterday your odds of picking something bad to eat were 5 out of 10, you know, 50/50. Well, maybe now that your body feels the aftermath, maybe next time it will be 4 out of 10 - yes it's still there, but just a little bit weaker this time?'
These words have helped me. The last couple of days I have managed to stay aware that I might binge eat - that it is a very real possibility. But I have remembered how I felt after the last time, and how great I feel when I wake up after a healthy day, and I have chosen not to do it.
I think it is also about motivation. I have 3lb to lose to hit 3 stone off (that's 42lb if you come from across the Pond). And it seems insurmountable. But then I started thinking, how would I feel if I were 3lb from goal? And I know I would have those pounds off quick as a flash. Somehow that is helping to spur me on.
Now I don't wish to complain. Ok, so I really, really do. Yes, I suppose I will admit my PMS has got better since I have been eating well and exercising, and actually I am reasonably sure evening primrose oil has made a big difference (and I was sceptical).
With that disclaimer out of the way, I can get on with whining with my conscience clear...
I am not Miss Bright and Breezy at this special time. I suffer from anxiety anyway - I mean, this is the woman who is convinced she gave her cat slight OCD - so when I have PMS things can get pretty hairy. Put it this way, I visited my doctor for a prescription for Xanax just to get me through. I haven't taken one (yet), but knowing they are there just helps relieve that sense of impending doom.
But really. Bleurgh.
Whose idea was it to make women have a week of complete and utter uselessness every month? Honestly, I might as well write off those days entirely. I have to get anything of any importance done in advance. That week, I have to be able to run on autopilot, otherwise I am completely floored the whole time.
Job interview? No thanks, I'll stick with the one I hate. Vacation? Err...heat and swimming?...I'll turn you down. Deciding what to eat for dinner? You must be joking, you evil *******!
Ok, so technically I know whose idea all this was supposed to be. God's.
Eve ate the apple, she was entirely responsible for the Fall of Mankind, and one of her punishments was the start of our much-loved 'ladies' problems'.
Now I am a staunch Christian. But I can't help but see one tiny little hole in this theory.
Specifically? Surely God would have seen what all this was going to do to poor Adam? Turning his wife into a harridan every four weeks?
Oh, who am I trying to kid, the man deserved it. I bet he left the toilet seat up, dropped his dirty fig leaves all over the floor, and always put the empty milk-and-honey carton back in the fridge.
Ahem.
All this aside, I feel very sorry for my husband (who never does any of those things, by the way). I have to admit I am not a nice person to live with at this time of the month.
I am, in fact, a monster. My moods flip-flop with all the predictability of a rampaging bull (and about as much charm).
He has a lot to put up with.
There are my feelings of ugliness and self-hatred (no wonder - I am usually wearing his track pants and slippers. To go shopping). And he bears the brunt of my wailing: 'Look at me. Look at my horrid greasy hair. Look at this zit. It's a travesty. And I smell bad. And don't even look at my stomach and don't touch it OK?'
Then there is the conviction that I am completely and utterly incapable of performing the simplest task.'Sodding laundry' I sob. 'Look at it all there, it's huge, it's like an elephant. I can't face it, I just can't. I am a Bad Wife.'
And then, of course, there is the anger. The all-consuming rage that fires up from nowhere and flares out at whoever is closest (and we know who that usually is).
The worst of it is, it's completely irrational. Naturally I am admitting this after the fact. Attempt to persuade me of it at the time and there will be trouble. My husband used to try this - a long time ago.
These days, he just looks at me with this odd, slightly wary expression. 'Look', he says, 'I know it isn't your fault, but please just don't hate me.'
And he is such a manly man. I must be scary.
This month he has managed to avoid most of it. As a refreshing change, this month my anger has mainly been directed at the call centre representatives of large web-based retailers and banks.
As two stores tried and failed to deliver my husband's new PS3, my bank blocked my card in fear of fraud, and the bleeping web forms wouldn't fill out properly, my hormonal wrath knew no bounds.
'Go to hell.' I screamed down the phone. 'Go to hell, go to hell, die, die, die!' The fact I was on hold at the time - and being forced to listen to an (unidentifiable) former member of Destiny's Child caterwauling down the phone - probably made this slightly more forgivable.
Then, this month, there was another symptom. The return of a long-lost friend, if you will.
Overeating.
Now I haven't done this for a long time (which is a miracle in itself). In fact, I was busy congratulating myself on this. Here is a conversation I had with my husband just before TOM a couple of months ago:
me: I think today has been quite a good day.
H: (says nothing)
me: I mean...I think in terms of dealing with PMS I have had my best month ever.
H: (says nothing, peculiar expression)
Me: Do you know I have had NO chocolate? None?
H: (says nothing)
Me: I mean, OK, so I threw the cat litter scoop at the wall.
H: (still silent)
Me: OK, so I got so mad I went to bed for 4 hours.
H: (still silent)
Me: But I didn't eat any chocolate.
H: I love you. (walks off)
For the first time in nine months of PMS, this month there was a lot of overeating. Gutted as I am at this apparent backslide, I didn't have a single (real) fight with my husband. So I guess he was probably glad this was a month for chocolate, rather than throwing things.
So why on earth do I get this irrational?
I am not a spoiled brat (most of the time). I am well aware that in a world where people are starving, it doesn't matter whether the new games console gets delivered on Wednesday or on Friday.
But at the time, these things all just feel so huge, so important, so elephantine.
My PMS symptoms don't come from nowhere. The main emotion behind them is a pervasive feeling of lack of control, of lack of ability to manage my life. There is plenty of self-flagellation going on there too. And those, of course, are feelings that follow me throughout life - it is just that on the days when I don't have excess hormones running riot in my system, I can manage them pretty well.
Perhaps these feelings are what I should really be dealing with.
But luckily, I don't have to worry about that for now. TOM is here, the clouds have cleared and there is sunshine. I am back to my usual delightful (?) self.
This morning I got up and fetched a load of laundry (the elephant didn't look so scary today). I walked downstairs, shoved it in the machine, switched it on and settled in for another three weeks of calm.
Why do I write this blog, I wonder? Is it because I somehow enjoy the humiliation of being able to look back at what I wrote the day before and see that I am in fact a complete idiot? Because at the moment I can't think of any other reason.
Yesterday was full of good intentions. I was facing a challenge - I had overeaten at lunch and had to make it through the rest of the day, knowing I had overeaten, but not bingeing. I was (reasonably) confident about my ability to do this.
Well, that turned out well. Real well.
As I lay on the couch with enough dinner for five rather portly people in my stomach, my mind was already trying to make this all seem OK. A long and futile quest it insists on attempting every time I have a binge. 'It's fine,' it whispered. 'What we'll do is, we just won't tell anyone at EP we screwed up. If we just don't mention it, then it basically didn't happen.'
Like that logic? No, I didn't either.
I have been a Secret Eater most of my life. I have restrained myself in public, but hidden my out-of-control bingeing from my parents, my friends, and occasionally even my husband (who is nothing but supportive).
This secrecy hasn't worked very well. If my parents had known what I was eating when I was 15, they probably would have taken me to the doctor. Ok, so I'm kidding myself. They would have told me even louder that I would end up just like them, but it might have got through, right?
There is also the awareness that by hiding these binges, I am trying to make them less real to myself.
So in a (perhaps foolhardy) effort to change yet another destructive behaviour pattern, I decided to go the other way - reveal every sordid detail here.
And here goes. *WARNING* you may want to stop reading here. It gets ugly, and possibly frighteningly familiar.
Well, after my overeating I had 200 calories left for dinner. I decided to have a normal meal anyway, because if I ate just 200 calories I might binge. So far, so good.
However, I was stressed out by a round of appointments and visits yesterday. They were all perfectly pleasant, but they left me feeling bad. I wanted comfort food (because gaining weight is so comforting).
Also, after those visits, I was feeling pretty darned thin. Now, a 5'6", 171 pound woman is not thin. But a 5'6", 171 pound woman who used to weigh 210 pounds sure gets told she is thin a lot, especially when she spends the day meeting with people she hasn't seen in months.
I knew I had only one pound to go to reach 40 pounds lost.
So of course, I thought 'Wow. This is going wonderfully. I can really do this.'
Hrrrmph. Actually it went more like this: 'I have really lost a lot of weight. I could afford to take a day off. And anyway, getting to my lowest weight so far, well, that is quite stressful. Is that even possible?'
All those insidious thoughts would have counted for nothing, had it not been for the real trouble - I really wanted to binge. I thought, as ever, that one time wouldn't matter, that I would enjoy it.
And somehow last night when I was making the pasta bake, I added an extra splash of olive oil to the onions. Ah well, I thought, this is OK because remember, you promised yourself that day off before starting this latest binge-free period - and you never took it. The more rational part of my mind told me the reason I never took it was because I woke up and thought 'I just can't do this to myself' - but the more rational part of my mind could not compete with the promise of mozzarella and onions with garlic and double cream.
So I threw some extra pasta into the pot for good measure.
It is a shame, I then thought, because if I am going to overeat, I would rather it be on a day when we have some really good food in. Like curry or pizza. But never mind, I'll do this today and it will be the last time. Of course, I won't then want to binge when I do have tastier food in the house *insert moment of slight worry here*.
Ok, so this binge was not as bad as many I have had. I did not, in fact, eat the entire contents of the cupboard (perhaps because the cupboard contains a lot of lentils and brown rice at the moment). I did not eat more than one meal - well sort of. I had a ginormous portion of pasta bake and a Slim Fast meal bar (it is not a dessert - the clue is in the word 'meal').
But when I say a ginormous portion, I mean ginormous. And when I say only one portion, that is only because, as everyone knows, pasta consumed in a bowl while the main dish bakes, and two cups or so of creamy pasta picked out of the casserole dish with a fork, simply do not count.
It was a real treat, guys. I mean, how often do I get to kick back and eat exactly what I like? (please don't answer that). So with all that food, I had a really happy, relaxing evening.
Yeah right.
After sitting - sorry, lolling - in a carb-and-cream induced stupor on the couch for a while, experiencing only minor feelings of despair at my gluttony, I went to bed early because I felt sluggish and I could feel dark, insistent fingers of unhappiness and desperation trying to creep in at the heavily fortified edges of my mind. 'If I go to bed now', I thought, 'I won't have to deal with this until the morning'. And that seemed like a pretty OK option at the time.
So after a restless night, about an hour ago I woke up.
And that was pretty great.
I just love that feeling I get when I have binged the night before. The crushing headache because someone has inexplicably started drilling just above my right eye. The acidic churning and burning in my distended stomach. The appalling regret and ensuing depression. It just makes me want to leap out of bed, pull the curtains, shout 'hello Mr Sunshine' and get stuck right into a beautiful day.
And God help me...here it comes now...yep here it is...the perverse conviction I could just murder a double order of Egg McMuffins and a (Diet) Coke.
I can't help but compare this to how I felt yesterday. Light, healthy and raring-to-go.
And oh yeah, now I remember. I have a lovely little torture device in the bathroom. This morning is only going to get better Yes, I am about to hit the Scales.
And they have nothing but good news for me. Yesterday, I weighed 171 pounds. This morning, I weighed 174.5. Yes, that is right, I haven't lost any weight for nearly three months.
Why, oh why, did I do it?
Well, looking back above it is in fact perfectly clear exactly why I did it. It was a recipe for disaster. A pinch of stress, a dash of over-confidence, and about five gallons of good old-fashioned denial (which is definitely not just a river in Egypt). I believed against all empirical evidence that I wanted to binge, so I refused to listen to any thoughts which tried to tell me otherwise.
So what can I take from this?
This might be the start of a big problem. It might not. I don't binge as much as I used to before I started losing weight. I do binge more than I did when I was losing weight.
There. I said it. I am not losing weight any more. That is what this has done.
I don't weigh any more than I did three months ago. If I keep doing this as much as I have been, pretty soon I will.
Re-reading this when I next feel the urge to binge may stop me. It may not. It is kind of up to me.
First, I am going to congratulate myself, because I could have let it get worse than it did. And I could have chosen the easier route of keeping it secret.
Second, some goals.
I want to learn to recognise, challenge and change my destructive thought processes as they arise.
I want to keep seeing this as a choice. At the top of the page, I wrote 'I had to make it through the rest of the day without bingeing'. I am changing that to 'I wanted to make it through the rest of the day.'
I want to keep seeing this moment to moment. If I didn't believe so fervently that one day's food mattered so much, I probably wouldn't have binged.
I want to put this out in the open. I am convinced many other people here on EP go through similar thought processes on a regular basis.
And most of all, I want to say this. We are all people with so much to enjoy. Why does food, any food, matter so much?
Rach xxx
* I am aware my posts have become really long lately. This was tiring to write and I can't be bothered to change it. As of tomorrow, I shall keep them shorter*
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