7 days of perfect eating and I am up 0.75lb. I don't want to change my chart - I somehow feel it should only show a gain if I actually did something wrong. Anyway, it happens. Here's to a brighter week...
Inspired by raspberrycordial, I am going to post a bit about how I got here. And yes, surprise, surprise, I blame my mum ...
I started this blog at 26, with 75lb to lose. But I had been trying to diet every single day for 15 years. The sad thing is, most of that time I wasn't overweight. It was dieting that caused my weight problem.
I began to think of myself as 'fat' at 11. Always skinny, suddenly my school clothes were tight. Already full of self-loathing, I was horrified. I spoke to my mum about it - I still remember that night vividly. She snapped, 'Well, you need to stop eating so many snacks, you are going to turn out just like me.' (My mom was a compulsive overeater who regularly ate herself up to 260 pounds).
Looking back at photos of myself from that time, I was tiny. The changes I was experiencing were just puberty. But from then on, I viewed myself as 'a fat person'.
I started trying to control what I ate. I was growing fast and no doubt needed a lot of calories - but to me, any snacking was 'bad', as were my school's huge lunches. After all, I knew how to lose weight from watching my parents' sporadic, all-or-nothing approach to dieting - it was supposed to be painful and nigh-on impossible.
The foods I had always consumed in moderation, without thinking about it, took on a forbidden appeal. Getting off the school bus, I would buy 3 chocolate bars and eat them all on the 5-minute walk home, stuffing them down so quickly I barely tasted them. My pockets were always full of shredded wrappers and chocolate crumbs.
I became vegetarian, which I was convinced would help me lose weight. But from that point on - at the age of 11 - I took on the responsibility for preparing my own meals - which meant I could eat what I liked.
I became a slightly plump teenager - but I felt huge. I looked at my friends with jealousy - why couldn't I be slim, with clear skin, and just somehow know how to dress and do my hair and act around others? I looked a mess - I mean, I can't believe my mum let me go out like that. But when she was overweight, she took no care of her personal appearance 'until she had lost weight'. I mimicked her in this.
I remember when I was 14, she took me to Miss Selfridge. I couldn't get into jeans below a size 14 (US 10), which to me seemed enormous. I can see now from photos that I was slim, the jeans must have been the wrong shape. But I got upset and Mum yelled - in the communal changing room - 'See what happens when you eat so much? You are going to be as big as me soon and you're 14, you need some self-control!'
If I ever did - accidentally - lose weight, I would be praised to high heaven - followed by the inevitable comment, 'Now you just have to keep it off'. Err...how, Mum?
By the time I reached the last two years of school, my weight worries had become a self-fulfilling prophecy - I looked plump, and very unhealthy. My eating habits were horrendous.
There were very few overweight girls at my school. I still remember sitting in an English class discussing what we had all eaten for breakfast that morning. The other girls had eaten porridge, cereal, toast...I had to admit to my standard breakfast - two chocolate Pop Tarts scoffed in the car on the way to school. In many schools, this probably wouldn't be unusual. At mine, it elicited cries of horror and 'you ate that for breakfast?' I felt mortified.
Mid morning meant a huge slice of carrot cake or a gigantic chocolate and caramel slice, a diet coke and a pack of bacon Wheat Crunchies. I wasn't the only one buying them - plenty of my friends were too. Trouble is, I would buy another cake with another set of friends during my free period an hour later. I can still taste those chocolate and caramel slices today, I ate so many that year.
Lunch was a pot noodle, an obscenely large brie baguette, a hulking jacket potato or fish and chips in the park with my friends.
My mum would collect me and my brother from school and on the way home every night we would stop at a local shop for a chocolate bar or an ice cream in the summer. Arriving home, I would ransack the cupboards. Despite the exhortations to diet, Mum kept shelves full of chocolate, crisps, ice creams and refrigerated desserts. When snacks disappeared, she silently replaced them - even when 2 packs of 7 chocolate bars were going every evening.
Dinner was 2 gigantic bowls of pasta with tomato sauce and piles of grated cheese or a whole chopped mozzarella ball and half a tub of parmesan. Afterwards I continued hoovering up food. I sat on my bed for hours, watching soaps or reading, munching mindlessly on chocolate, crisps, cheese, pittas with mayonnaise and sliced tomatoes, and leftovers from my parents' meals or a takeaway if they were eating one. Ironically, these numb hours, absorbed in made-up lives, were the happiest of my teenage years. Simple comfort and escape - except when I had to sneak downstairs to garner more supplies from the kitchen, hoping my parents wouldn't hear the rustle of the crisp packet.
I used to hide the boxes and wrappers in my bedside cupboard. Every so often, Mum would do a raid and lay out all the mouldering tubs downstairs to confront me.
I started my first 'proper diet' - ie not just an attempt to 'eat less' at the age of 17. I had already been completely obsessed with weight for six years. And the story continued...
As much as I hate blaming my mum for all this, I actually think it was less healthy when I didn't. When I still just thought my behaviour came from nowhere - that I was defective.
Now I have faced up to my anger, I can realise it wasn't all her fault. If I hadn't been such a sensitive soul, I would never have taken those comments to heart. I wouldn't have been so anxious and so unhappy.
And yet, I partly blame my parents for not understanding the kind of personality their child had.
I now realise my mother, too, is only human. She was desperate that I wouldn't be as unhappy with my weight as she was, but associated food with nurturing, and felt completely powerless in the face of weight issues.
I wasn't abused. Nothing terrible happened to me as a child. And I am doing OK. I have realised I can change. Maybe one day I can help someone else who is in a similar position, and then all of this will have been worth it.
Rach xxx
PS. Spotted a news article on the BBC site this morning - 'Third of staff hungover at desk'. First thought was, 'Why, oh why not me?'
It is Day 21 of being on track, a nice big milestone that I will be able to celebrate tomorrow. Tomorrow which is, incidentally, weigh-in day.
So why can I only think about food? Sweet food? I haven't had any sugar in ages.
It isn't the pressure of the three-week goal, I am not feeling that. It could be the start of PMS. I could be sick.
Either way, I am doing my level best to struggle through, but I don't like it.
I also hate that, even though I am at an all-time lightest (well, since I started this), my waist is two inches larger than it was due to lack of exercise. I have half-heartedly done some...I want to do more...why can't I make myself?
Ok, so for a change of subject, here are some pictures of my kitties. The tabby, Sebastian, we have had for almost 18 months, the white and black one is our newest addition, Ruby. She came on Thursday, the two cats aren't the best of friends as yet (though they are not at each others' throats)...that is why I have no pics of them together, though:
Ok, that is all for me today...I SHALL be back tomorrow to tell you all I completed those three weeks!
Lots of love and hope you are having a better day than I am!
Fitness was going to be a big part of our marriage.
We even had many great discussions about it while we were engaged.
'Listen,' I would say. 'I am worried about how our health will be when we are 40. I look at people I know that age, and they are all getting sick. I don't want to end up like that.'
'I know,' J. would agree. 'But this is us. We are going to be fine. We will eat super healthily and do so much exercise. We are going to be in such great shape.'
'Excellent plan,' I would reply, through a mouthful of Big Mac. 'Well, now we have that sorted, shall we grab a pizza on the way home?'
Nine months later, we were married.
Needless to say, the health plan did not, in fact, begin in earnest. In fact, within a year or two, we had both packed on some serious poundage.
Slim, relatively active people when we met, how had we become so unfit?
The trouble was, we had never really had health habits that were effective in the long term.
I mean, my top plan was 'pray to retain the metabolism I had at 20.'
I was a health food freak, active student and keen runner hiding binge eating disorder. My husband, in the US Navy, had a habit of gaining 20 pounds on homeports and losing them on deployments. Lather, rinse and repeat the cycle for five years - and he had the perfect prescription for long-term weight maintenance.
However, move us to married life and desk jobs, weather too vile to run (that's my excuse!), increased stress and no more deployments, add in a serious eating and drinking hobby - and it is a recipe for disaster.
And, in a pattern I am sure many EPers will recognise, we just reinforced each other's bad habits. Partnership is a beautiful thing. You see, if someone else is doing it too, it's not that bad, right?
We can always reassure each other 'we'll start tomorrow'. And all those times we do start? Well, it only takes one of us to leave the corner of the Indian takeaway menu sticking out of the drawer.
I mean, it's not as though I'm fat, right? My partner tells me I'm not. My partner tells me I'm beautiful. So I can be gorgeous, and eat ten family packs of Doritos. I knew there was a reason I got married .
And then it went too far. We were sick, exhausted and depressed. Something had to change.
I started first. It was simple, really. I admitted I couldn't stick to a diet. And I stopped trying. Instead, I picked one small thing to change - I cut out stimulants.
And I didn't do it alone - when you are an addict, as I was, it can help to have someone to carry you through those first few days. My husband became that someone. He promised not to nip out for my giant chocolate bars - and I promised not to yell at him for refusing, this time.
He stuck by me, and within a week, I was so much happier and healthier. Then my husband joined in. He started a food diary and increased his exercise. A week later, he had quit smoking - for good, this time.
And something strange started to happen. Where we had been feeding each other's bad habits, we started supporting each other's good ones.Doing things healthily was twice as fun - and twice as easy - when there were two of us.We shopped together, exercised together, planned together.
Whoever was feeling stronger supported the person who was struggling. We didn't want to let each other down. And we helped each other keep slip-ups in perspective.
Nearly one year on, our habits - and our bodies - have transformed.
Our improved health has given us a sense of achievement and well-being that has spilled into all areas of our lives. We have gained a greater independence from each other as well as a fantastic relationship.
Sure, we slip up. Occasionally, we even sabotage each other as well as ourselves. But we always get back on track. Because this time, we are on the same page, and we know where we want things to head.
I have learned that partnership is what you make of it. A spouse, a boyfriend, a friend...they can be your worst partner in crime, or your best ally in having the life you want. You can support each other in self-delusion, or in accountability and strength.
And sure, it has its downsides. Like when my husband lost 45 pounds in the time it took me to lose 20 ; ) And the fact that he has been at goal for months, while I still have 35 pounds to lose.
But it could be worse...now he's embarking on a new career as a personal trainer. And I'd better get free sessions .
Love...and apologies for the mess I made of the pics...I will get hubby to sort them out later for me (hey, being married means you don't have to learn this stuff, right?)
I never thought a wedding ring could be such a bind.
I mean, ladies, you must know how I feel...sometimes, you just want to get rid of that sucker, just take it off for a while, feel free.
Like when you want to clean it. Or go swimming.
Maybe do the gardening without losing a great big sparkly diamond in your potted petunias.
Or just because it is so darned tight you are worried that your finger is eventually going to rot and drop off.
Well, it's all happening for me at the moment! They say things come in threes...this was my triple whammy yesterday:
1. I got into the 11 stone bracket.
2. MY SIZE 14 (US 10) TROUSERS FELL DOWN (errr...the button came off but we will brush that aside).
3. I got my engagement ring off.
Yes, I was sitting on the couch, and fiddling with the ring (as you do), and I noticed it felt a lot looser than normal. So I thought, I'll just give it a try, what have I got to lose? I twisted it and twisted it, and then, holding my breath (because that would help), I eased it oh-so-excruciatingly-slowly over the knuckle, and wow! It was off. For the first time in nearly two years.
I can't believe how good it felt. Just to be able to wiggle that poor, swollen finger in the cool air. To understand this, you have to realise that there have been times, since I got so overweight my ring was stuck on my hand, that I genuinely thought it was cutting off my circulation. Especially if I ate a lot of salt, my finger would get all swollen and red. I am claustrophobic, and somehow this all played into that. Sometimes I would lie in bed in a blind panic, ring finger tingling, just desperate to get it off me RIGHT NOW.
I would fantasise about calling in some firemen to my bedside....so they could cut it off.
Then I would get upset. Because I love that ring, and I treasure it. I couldn't bear to get it cut off - in fact, that was a major motivator for my weight loss. I just couldn't face it.
And I was so disgusted that I had managed to do this to myself. I had been married less than three years, and I had already 'let myself go'. Not that I ever really had a hold of myself to begin with - I was just blessed with a higher metabolism and a naturally active lifestyle.
So taking that ring off was a huge NSV for me.
Of course, I just turned around and put it right back on again, about thirty seconds later.
Woo HOO! That is all I can think of to start this off. 11 stone 13 pounds this morning. Yes, that is ELEVEN stone something.
I guess the last time I weighed this must have been around August or September 2006.
Witness, ladies and gents, the amazing results of 14 days perfectly on plan (around 1950 calories per day)...SEVEN POUNDS LOST IN 14 DAYS.
A great reward. It took me more than 5 months to lose 10 pounds before this, so it just shows what small changes you have to make to make a huge difference in your weight.
I look pretty skinny in my clothes this morning, I have to say.
Well, skinny for me.
Out of my clothes, it is a different story. I haven't exercised regularly since Christmas. I was reluctant to start again before I got into the 11s, because my weight loss slows a lot when I exercise. Now, however, my body seems to have become an amorphous, jellified mass. My boobs are sagging, my belly is oh-so-wibbly-wobbly, and my thighs and bum..well, they have more dimples than my face and that is saying something (my face is round). There is even cellulite on my arms.
So, it is time to start the exercising with a vengeance. Cardio marathons, pumping iron...whatever, as long as it gets me buns - and arms - of steel within seven weeks, for my holiday in the States.
Scale addict that I am, I had better not weigh myself tomorrow, because I know I shall be back in the 12s from my post-workout water retention. Good job, then, that my scales are being singularly uncooperative. 'bATT,' they declare accusingly every time I step on them. 'bATT.'
They have only lived with me for eight years, there is still time for them to learn proper English.
I just want to tell you the fuller story of what happened at the RSPCA inspection yesterday. I still can't think about it without cracking up...
I wrote yesterday how I took a while to clean up before the inspection. By the end, the house was pretty sparkly. I had cleared away all the concrete bags in the kitchen that said 'highly toxic' from our garden landscaping. I had hidden away all the bottle tops and toilet roll tubes our current cat plays with, and got out all his 'real' toys (the ones he turns his nose up at).
When I was done, I looked around, and I was quite pleased. And then I made my mistake...
I figured the inspector would want to see our beautiful, healthy current cat.
He had been warned to be on his best behaviour. I had been explaining to him for days that he was going to get a Baby Sister. Although I wasn't sure how much of it he was taking in.
The trouble was, showing our cat to strangers is easier said than done. He is terrified of them. When people come round, he tends to hide in the shower.
However, I had cunningly shut all the upstairs doors so he had nowhere to run. I was feeling mighty smug.
But pride, as they say, comes before a fall. When the inspector knocked on the door, I seized my moment, picked up my beautifully groomed darling and took him to the door with me. So I open the door, he sees this strange woman and goes crazy. He flails like a mad thing to get down, legs thrashing, and he makes two really deep gashes on my chest, before struggling free and leaping up the stairs.
So I am greeting this pet inspector with a cat that has run from me in terror, and rivers of blood running down my chest.
And then from upstairs starts this appalling yowling. It was one of the worst things I have ever heard. The cat has found out he can't get into any of his hiding places - but to hear it you would think he is being strangled.
Luckily, we were approved anyway.
But after Scary Inspector Lady left, kitty and I had some serious words.
Turns out, he DID understand me about the Sister...and he was not impressed.
He decided to make out he was a poor, maltreated kitty, just to stop her coming.
Well, after 13 days perfectly on plan, I expected to be in the 11 stone something bracket this morning for the first time on this journey.
However, I couldn't have counted on the fact that, for once, I forgot to weigh myself. Grr! I remembered just as I was washing my hair in the shower, and I thought, I have long hair. The water in it has to weigh at least quarter of a pound extra .
Ah well, at least there will be some poetry in making that mini goal tomorrow at the 2 weeks on plan mark. Hopefully, anyway.
The reason I forgot to weigh myself is this...we are adopting a second cat from the RSPCA. To do this, you have to have a home inspection to make sure you will be fit parents to your new furbaby!
Well, the house was not immaculate, especially because we have been landscaping our garden. There is mud everywhere and building implements and bags of cement littering the kitchen.
So, the woman phoned last night at 9pm, and asked if she could come round today at 9.30am. Not much notice!
But I still had time to do it. There were twelve hours left. I really only wanted to sleep for seven of them (ok, ok, ten, but that dream is not realised often).
So did I clean last night before bed? Naturally, no.
I thought 'I will just sit down and have this cup of tea and watch this episode of Extras, and then I will set my alarm and do it first thing.'
Because later is always better than now, right?
Errr...no.
Naturally, I didn't get up when my alarm went off. In fact, I didn't get up until 90 minutes later. Pointless, as I was actually lying awake the entire time worrying about all the work I had to do, calculating the exact number of minutes I thought it would take.
I ended up rushing round for an hour, in a real grump. It is now pretty tidy and pretty clean but I am still kind of embarrassed to have anyone come round.
It is more the decor than anything else. I mean, I turn around and look at the room and think 'if this had a cream carpet it would look great.'
Unfortunately, the carpet is not cream. It is, in fact, meatball-coloured.
I know this because I once dropped a meatball from my meatball marinara Subway onto the floor. It rolled off, and I looked and looked but couldn't find it, so I presumed the cat had munched it.
But a few days later I spied it...right in the middle of the floor. It had been there all along, it was just perfectly camouflaged because it was exactly the same colour as the carpet.
Ah well, soon, soon we will get the cream one...after we finish the patio and the flowerbeds and the tiling and the painting.
Ok, I had better go put on my best 'I am a fit carer for a cat' face .
Love and blessings, Rach xxx
Edited: The inspector has been and gone, we have been approved. We should have our new kitty in a couple of days .
Ladies and gentlemen...fanfare please...this morning I have reached....three stone off! That is 42 pounds for the Americans, so not a benchmark there, but three stone is a pretty big one if you are English.
I started at 15 stone, this morning I was 12 stone even.
I am actually pretty ashamed at how long it took me to get there - 11 months - but it is an achievement nonetheless.
In other news...ugh ugh ugh. I feel gross this morning. I have had a bad cold for the last week, and have been super busy for the last three days. I went to bed at 9.30 last night, feeling totally wiped. Result - I woke up at 10 o'clock this morning. Whoops!
I did drag myself briefly from the bed at 8.30 for my weigh in. It was a struggle. There was little I would get up for...for example, I couldn't bring myself to make my poor hubby's packed lunch...but a weigh-in is a pretty big treat .
I actually got a sunburn yesterday while gardening. Yes, this is in April, in England, wearing SPF 25 sunscreen.
Even worse than the sunburn, on my chest there is...A NEW FRECKLE. Aaarrrgh! After a careful year of religiously treating the sun like a mortal enemy, I had just about managed to get rid of most of last summer's crop. Now the little sods are coming back with full force.
I really didn't expect sunburn yesterday, I have to say I am a little worried as to what the world is coming to, and foreseeing summers where I will have to wear full body armour at all times. That is if I actually dare to step out of the house and face my nemesis. The light, the light, it buuuurrrrrns! Oh, the torments of being a redhead!
My husband got really angry with me yesterday. I was weeding the verge outside our house - not our responsibility, but it was covered in fast-spreading clover stuff about a foot deep. I just couldn't bear to look at the darned thing any more. I swear it was swelling by the hour.
Anyway, during this three hour escapade I got loads of stingers in my hands from various weeds, and one needed to come out.
Well I have an incredibly low pain threshold (I am sensitive, don't you know), I am terrified of anything sharp coming near my precious veins, and I have a real needle phobia.
So it was probably a mistake to mention the problem to my hubby.
I am a woman. I like to complain about things, and make everyone aware I am suffering. That doesn't necessarily mean I am interested in fixing the issue. I don't need to - the moaning has already made me feel better. And important.
My husband, however, is a man (and therefore a poor, deluded creature). I mean, he is so absurdly rational. If I complain, he thinks I want a solution.
It could only end in disaster..there I was, in the bath, screaming and cowering from the love of my life as he brandished this miniscule needle with which he proposed to remove the stinger. I mean, is he crazy?
He couldn't see my point. He was so exasperated. 'Don't you trust me?' he kept asking.
Well no, not if you are waving that lethal piece of steel at my extremities, darling, but I can't tell you that or you will feel hurt.
Anyway, after various extremely hurtful accusations from my husband ('you are worse than a three year old') I won. The stinger is still there.
Maybe one day I shall grow up...but not today, please.
Ok, so...12 days on plan and counting. Eeek! I am so good it is scary. Who needs the sun, I am dazzling myself .
See you all soon, lots of love and God Bless, Rach xxx
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