self-imposed famine

I am recalling, as I contemplate the reading on my scale this morning, a comment Kim made fairly recently to a post on this blog. A fellow writer, and a darn good one, Kim has a way of being direct while at the same time saying something in a way you've never heard it said before. Normally, I find this very enjoyable. This time, it caught me off guard.

Bad news, she writes, none of the experts have come up with a better way to lose weight than a self-imposed famine. I chuckled as I read it, but deep inside, there was something about it that was decidedly not funny. Not Kim, mind you, but the deeper implications of this particular comment. I stored it away, along with some notes I scribbled as I processed my emotional response.

The thoughts have returned this morning, ready for me to explore them further. Despite two weeks of working out hard and reigning myself in, I have not only not lost weight, I have gained two pounds. While I am confounded, I am not surprised. I could feel it. I knew it in my body. But knowing it and understanding why it's happening are two entirely different things.

I know enough to know that I obviously am eating more calories than I am burning, so I need to re-evaluate my intake. But I also know enough to know that I was NOT eating so much that I should have gained weight. Maintained, perhaps. But not gained. This is what drives me to despair. I am trying not to go there, today. But the urge is strong.

I return to my notes from Kim's comment. I already deprive myself. I already say no to ice cream with the kids, to a third or fouth peice of pizza, to cookies in the break room, to french fries or garlic bread or pastries at Panera. I already reign myself in. Why must I do it more?

I already work hard. I already do some form of exercise, which I still, for the record, don't LOVE, four to six days a week. I walk, I cross-train, I strength-train, I interval-train. I already push myself beyond what is comfortable. Why must I do it more?

This is the struggle. I get that I have to watch what I eat and work out, and will need to do that forever. What I don't get is why I work out harder than my husband and don't eat half the stuff he does yet weigh 30 lbs more. What I don't get is why we can eat the same foods in the same portions and I gain weight and he does not. And what I don't get is why on earth God thinks this is a good idea.

Self-imposed famine. How much? How long? And to what end? Can I do it, knowing my body may or may not respond? Do I want to? (No.) But do I want my clothes to fit again? (YES.) So, what choice do I have? (None.)

Self-imposed famine. Restrict. Deny. Reign in. Work out. Burn.

And pray that the God of body fat has mercy on my soul.

So today looks like boycotting the gym (though I have a sinus infection on which I can lay blame), and eating whatever the heck I want, because I'm done. Tomorrow looks like paying better attention to my caloric intake and getting serious about getting this weight off. Because I'm done.

And so, at least for a season, self-imposed famine it is. Not to an extreme, mind you, but to a greater degree than what has obviously not been working. We'll see if my body plays by the rules this time...

un-acceptable

The scale reads the same as it did two weeks ago. This would be great, were I trying to maintain my weight. But I'm not. I've been trying for over six months to lose the weight I gained over my Winter From Hell, so as to be able to actually WEAR the clothes in my closet. (How vain and self-absorbed of me.) I gained ten more pounds in the process. I dieted, lost seven pounds. Gained it back. Dieted. Lost six pounds. Went off the diet because I couldn't stand it any more. Ate clean, ate reasonably, worked out like a sane person. I felt good. Until this morning. I'm not losing weight.

If I were a glass-half-full person, I would celebrate that I was able to maintain my weight even through a camping trip and the first week of school. But I wasn't trying to maintain. I was trying to lose. I was consciously reigning myself in. I was consciously choosing healthy, low-fat, clean foods. I was making myself exercise when I wanted to sit on my butt. Why is there no fruit on this God-forsaken tree? Even Jesus cursed the tree that bore no fruit. So where does that leave me and my God-forsaken body?

It leaves me in despair, curing my body and shaking my fist at the God who gave it to me. I'm angry. I'm hurt. I'm confused. Why does my body not respond like other peoples' bodies? Why must this be a lifelong struggle? Why must I police every bite of food I put in my mouth? Why do I work out like the buff girls at the gym but LOOK like my friends who only exercise occasionally? Or worse, why do they look more fit than me?

Acceptance, many will preach to me. Accept your body. Make friends with it. I would not ever be friends with a person this fickle and unreliable. Ever. I don't want to befriend 154 pounds. I want to return to my normal level of overweightness and be able to wear the clothes in my closet. I don't think that's unreasonable or unhealthy. It is a reasonable desire. Unless, of course, you live in my body.

I pray, in my ridiculous rubbing-the-genie-bottle way, every time I step on that stupid contraption. (And don't bother to tell me to stop weighing myself—I won't. I only do it every couple of weeks, to find out if what I'm doing is working. Typically, it's not. I'm sick to death of disapproving glances and comments every time I check the numbers to see if they add up with what I'm trying to accomplish. So there. How's that for snarky?) I close my eyes and I take a deep breath and I intone Please God, let it go down. Please. Please make it go down.

Then I step on the scale and it whirs and clicks and I hold my breath and I wait to either be reassured or to have my heart drop. Most days, the number is of the heart-dropping variety.

Obviously I'm eating more calories than I think I am. Obviously I'm not exercising as much as I need to. Obviously something must be wrong, right? But what? Starving myself is not right, either. Obsessive exercise that wears me out and makes me want to cry is not right. And even when I do what's not right, hoping it will be right, it is still wrong. What. The. Heck.

I am so tired. Tired of feeling deprived. Tired of exercising when I want to write or be with people instead. Tired of eating fruit while my family eats ice cream. Tired of feeling week and weary and sick to my stomach when I work out. Tired of feeling frustrated, weary, hopeless. I'm tired. But I'm also tired of wearing the same six outfits. So which is worse to endure?

My body is not my friend. My body is the mean-spirited class princess who smiles sweetly to your face then spreads devastating lies about you behind your back. It cannot be trusted, yet I am suckered in every time. And as for the God who made that body? Some days, to be quite honest, I question if he can be trusted, either.

has it really been that long?

"I wish that Girl would EAT SOMETHIN' so I'd have somethin' to read," my good friend Cindy lamented, at least a few weeks ago. I laughed, but inside I cringed--how is this writing thing every going to happen if I don't actually, WRITE? The problem, of course, has not been a lack of eating anything (good heavens, no) but more a lack of time, energy, clarity, and courage. All essential ingredients necessary for writting, blogging, or creating a manuscript. All ingredients I fear I don't have in my cupboard.

What was I thinking?

The struggle remains, of course, a month later. The scale continues to go up and down. I continue to freak out about it, then pull myself together. My body continues to cling to every bit of fat it can, and I continue to fight to excise at least ten pounds of it in order to have pants to wear this winter. Words continue to swarm my already crowded mind, and I continue to gather them in silence.

My desperate hope is that this year will bring some changes. More time, less work. More writing, less running around. More energy, less depression. More resources, less drains. More health, less of all that is not health. As for the part of that which is within my hands, I am setting aside nine hours a week to write as a starting point or goal.

Writing. Being fit. Being sane and at peace. My goals for this school year.

the best laid plans...

The fight to not freak out is never-ending. The battle for control over my thought life is tiring at best, excruciating at worst. Take today, for example.

Prior to my birthday this past Saturday, I'd lost seven pounds on my way back to my pre-sucky-winter "normal" weight. My clothes were fitting better, my mood was hopeful, my spirit was lighter. I was encouraged.

I was not even fearful about the weekend. I knew what was in store. I had a plan. Hiking and ice cream on Friday. Salad for lunch then dinner out with dessert on Saturday. Back on my eating plan come Sunday. It was a good plan. It allowed for treats, allowed for celebrating, allowed for a little birthday revelry. And it allowed me to maintain the all-too-important momentum that had built over the last few weeks. It was a good plan, and I followed it well.

Problem was, I did not plan for a surprise party.

I did not plan for chocolate cake with mousse in the middle and real butter cream frosting. I did not plan for homemade apple strudel. I did not plan for kettle chips and chocolate chip cookies.

One day of celebration--of enjoying the love that was behind these wonderful, delectable treats--and the familiar tightness in my waistband is back with a vengeance. The number on the scale is higher. And the sinking in my spirit is much, much lower.

It was ONE day. I know this. I'm right back on track. I know this, too. But...

The momentum was stalled. The progress interupted. The direction of the scale reversed. And for someone whose greatest fear is that the weight won't come back off, again, this can be panic-inducing.

So, I am trying today NOT to panic. I'm trying to silence the voice in my head that screams, "SEE!!! This is what always happens! You're doomed to be fat forever!"

I can ignore it for a while.

But I can't, for the life of me, make it shut the heck up.

happy birthday to me...

So, for the record, birthdays completely screw with your diet. I had my whole weekend mapped out, complete with ice cream and key lime pie, and vowed to be back on the wagon come 7.26.09. That would be today. Given that I've lost seven pounds in the last three weeks, my determination was strong and I was doing, if you don't mind me saying, darn well. Then my husband surprised me.

That meant cake. The good kind that has the chocolate mousse in the middle and real butter cream frosting. That also meant apple strudel, which my mom bakes for me for my birthday. AND it meant Kettle Chips and chocolate chip cookies from Krista, who takes my blog title VERY seriously.

That means I did NOT get back on the wagon today. That means I had apple strudel for breakfast, lunch, AND dinner. And that means that I'm struggling to not freak out that I've re-gained all seven pounds in one day. So far I am winning that battle, but the fear is relentless. One day, that fear will be gone. One day...

So, back on the wagon tomorrow. It was my birthday, after all. And if I'm going to have my cake, you better darn well believe I'm going to eat it, too.

(Will be back to posting regularly soon...)

rambling in my fatigue

I'm not avoiding writing. Not much, at least. No more so than I'm avoiding everything else. There is just a pervasive lack of time for anything other than the necessities. Do I squeeze in a workout, or write? Do I have the energy for either? Do I even have the desire?

Spent the weekend at a string of unavoidable food events. I have yet to master saying no to the bounty of the buffet. Is it a lack of discipline? Gluttony? Guilty pleasure? Joy in God's culinary creativity? All I know is that Helen's lemon bars made me happy. And so I ate several. In addition to my German Chocolate Chip Cookie Bars, which also made me happy. In addition to the "Texas Caviar," which also made me happy. In addition to...

Food makes me happy. I have yet to determine if this is good or bad. What it does to my body, however, at least in the current quantities, is decidedly NOT good. But here's the thing... one lemon bar is just not enough. So where's the limit? Thirty-eight years, and I've yet to figure this one out.

Lemon bars and chocolate chip cookies and chips and salsa--happy, colorful moments in a gray, melancholy life. Without them, lots of them, what is left?

forbidden fruit

It's no secret that those of us who struggle with disordered eating have some twisted thinking. There's nothing rational about believing that I may never get the opportunity to have Cap City Diner's Big-A Chocolate Cake ever again in my life when we go there several times a year. There's nothing rational about binging over the weekend then being surprised when the scale registers a higher number on Monday. There's nothing rational about gaining five pounds then making the leap that within a month I will have suddenly gained another 95. Let's face it. We're not exactly known for rationality.

The issue, I believe, is one of deception. Somewhere along the line, we have come to believe that which is not truth, and we cling to it doggedly. There are a multitude of lies that get stuck in our main frame, but for me, the lie that sends me into the greatest amount of panic is the one that whispers to me there is not enough for you. Now, was I a survivor of the Great Depression or a Nazi Concentration Camp, that would be a valid fear with a clear root. But I'm obviously not, and, to look at me, you know that I clearly get more than enough. So where is that fear rooted?

One of our pastors slapped me upside the head a few months ago with the answer, and I didn't even realize I was asking the question at the time. He was teaching on Eve and the Garden of Eden, and if you've done any reading on this subject, you know that most people point the finger at Eve's pride as being the problem—the "original sin," so to speak. They assert that Eve's great transgression was wanting to be like God—eating of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil so that she could know what God knows and therefore be on par with the omniscient creator. This pastor disagrees.

Eve's offense was of a much different nature, he contends. When Satan questions what she is and isn't allowed to eat, the issue was not what she chose to eat and why. The issue was that she responded to that question in her heart with distrust. In her heart, she believed God was withholding from her. And if God was withholding from her, then he must not really be for her, and therefore he must not really be loving and good. The heart of the matter was not one of pride, it was one of distrust. And as much as I'd like to convince myself that I would never have taken from that tree, the truth is that I eat of its fruit each and every day.

When it all boils down to it, I struggle to believe that I can "taste and see that the Lord is good." When I am told I cannot eat X, Y, or Z, I don't receive that as loving. I perceive it as withholding. When I already feel sad and lonely and tired and unhappy and deprived, to be told I can't have something that brings me a brief moment of happiness feels like punishment at its worst, withholding at its best. I don't know how to uproot this. I don't know how to put the proverbial apple back on the proverbial tree.

I don't know how to believe that which I don't truly believe. I don't know how to trust in a love I cannot taste, see, feel, experience.

If the truth has not set me free, do I not really know the truth?

quandry

How can I possibly eat LESS when I really want MORE?

down the drain

Swirling thoughts—I cannot pin any of them down. I cannot pen any of them down. Clarity eludes me. I don't know what to say.

Perhaps it is the full moon. Perhaps it is my full stomach. My full mind. My full calendar. Everything is full except that which matters.

And so it goes that the stomach is full but the heart is empty. Hungry. I am always, always hungry. The one spot nothing fills. Nothing satisfies.

I cannot do this. This is not within my power to fix. The more I try to fill that which feels empty, the emptier that which cannot be filled by my own hand becomes. I am at my end. Again.

Thoughts, swirling. Words, swirling. Scraps of paper, swirling. Slices of pizza, swirling. Scoops of ice cream, swirling. Longings, legitimate and otherwise, swirling. Dreams, desires, and disappointments, swirling. Schedules and school work and Saturdays off, swirling, swirling, swirling.

It is out of my hands.

Sovereign Lord, I beg for the reassurance that it is all, indeed, in yours.

fear or trust?

Writing...I've discovered, has much in common with resolving weight issues. You can proceed from the fear that unless you force yourself to do it, you won't. Or you can proceed from the belief that you want to do it, and will, but that doing it may sometimes look like not doing it. One way is as difficult as the other; both require perseverance and commitment. The way you choose depends on how you want to live. You can fear yourself or you can trust yourself.

Geneen Roth

Doing it may sometimes look like not doing it...you can fear yourself or you can trust yourself.

Love this quote. Right now, life looks like not writing. Life looks like not exercising. Life looks like not losing weight. I cannot begin to tell you the panic this creates internally.

I want to learn this trust. This ability to rest in knowing that I will write. That I will work out. That I will get my weight back into normal limits. I want to trust that I will parent well, love my husband well, pay my bills on time, get the laundry done... all without having to force myself out of the fear that I won't do it otherwise.

The way you choose depends on how you want to live. I do not want to live in this kind of fear any longer. But to say that seems as ludicrous, as unnatural as a fish saying I do not want to live in water any longer. Striving has been akin to breathing--how does one suddenly not breathe?