it's been a long, long time

Over a year has past since my last entry. Let's review then and now.

Then: Struggling to take off the 10-20 pounds I regained after the half-marathon in 2008.
Now: Struggling to take off the 10-20 pounds I regained after the half-marathon in 2008.

Then: Obsessing about not fitting into my skinny wardrobe, and no longer having a fat one.
Now: Obsessing about not fitting into my skinny wardrobe, and no longer having a fat one.

Then: Trying to coax and cajole my body into giving up these last ten pounds to get back to my normal weight.
Now: Trying to coax and cajole my body into giving up these last ten pounds to get back to my normal weight.

Then: Going completely insane in the process of trying to figure out why my body won't respond.
Now: Going completely insane in the process of trying to figure out why my body won't respond.

Then: Struggling to get through the holidays without gaining ANOTHER TEN POUNDS.
Now: Struggling to get through the holidays without gaining ANOTHER TEN POUNDS.

Then: Near a point of complete despair and hopelessness.
Now: Near a point of complete despair and hopelessness.

If nothing else, at least I'm consistent.

I hope to get back to writing again, if for no other reason than to get out of my head. I know all three of you who have been checking will be breathless with anticipation.

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.

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.

curses on isaac newton…

Finally stepped on the scale this morning. I think I was in need of a shock to finally wake me up out of this sugar-induced stupor. It woke me up, alright. I won't go through my list of emotions—I'm sure you can pretty well guess by now what my response would have been.

I did not, however, spend twenty minutes crying in the shower, which is a fairly typical response for me. Probably because the number really wasn't a surprise, given what The Woman Formerly Known as Lorie looked like in pictures from the weekend. And how can I act shocked when I know what I've been doing? The first ten pounds I can legitimately blame on a crappy winter—they truly snuck up on me. The rest? Well, it's all me, baby. Rebellion? Anger turned inward? Apathy? Self-care? Who knows. I just hope it's over.

It is odd that I did not cry. But I think I am moving toward resolve. Moving toward… In the meantime, there are Oreo cookies in my pantry from the weekend. Will I eat one when I'm done? Before I tell my husband to take them into work tomorrow? Will I eat more than one? More than two? Or will I drink my water and retreat to bed, knowing that there are more Oreo cookies in the world that I can have any time I want?

Mr. Newton claims for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Pig out—gain weight. Starve—binge. Weigh yourself—freak out and create a new resolve to, well, to do what?

I don't know.

I'm tired of equal and opposite reactions. I want a new and different reaction. I want to stop swinging from one extreme to the other. I want to be free.

But does freedom mean eating the Oreo cookies, or not?

This, I cannot determine for the life of me…

who is this woman?

She's showing up in our family pictures, again. I don't know who invited her, but it ticks me off. It has been four years since I've last seen her, and we've still not reconciled. Truth be told, I have no interest whatsoever in doing so. She is not welcome here. I will not be reconciled.

I want her gone, plain and simple. I liked the woman who took her place. She smiled a lot more. She laughed and played with her kids and didn't sit with her arms wrapped around her waist. She didn't have that fearful, self-conscious look in her eyes and she rarely checked her reflection in the many mirrored surfaces surrounding her. I'm not sure where she's gone, but I want this woman back.

For four years I was not The Fat Girl any longer. I was The Fit But Curvy Girl. Or The In Shape Though Slightly Big Boned Girl. I was The Healthy And Almost-Accepting of Her Five-Foot, Two-Inch, 140 lb Frame Girl. While that girl was still slightly on the neurotic side, I still liked her much better than The Fat Girl. But I don't know how to get The Fat Girl out of our family pictures for good.

I don't want her here. She is not welcome. I want The Healthy, Smiling Girl back. But I don't know how to find her. And I fear I won't, ever again.

spinning my wheels

Yet another moment of distress. I pull on a t-shirt to wear to bed. My size M which I've worn so proudly for the last several years, for the first time since—when? Junior high? It clings to my middle, refusing to fall down smoothly over my rear-end. I feel exposed.

The day was filled with these moments, as was the week, the weekend, the month. Putting on my jeans this morning, fresh from the wash, and having that initial moment of dismay before they finally relaxed slightly around my enlarged frame. The reminder, each time I stood up or walked, that I have gained weight because of the way they cling stubbornly to my thighs. How many times to today did my heart sink at that rub-rub-rub?

I cannot stop. I cannot start. Eating. Exercising. I can't get past this place of spinning my wheels.

Am I going to stop eating everything in sight? I ask my husband, in bed.

Yes, he replies.

When, I ask.

When you want something else more than food.

I don't like his answer. He wonders why I won't let him put his arm around my thick, bulging waist. Why I pull away. Why I shut down. Again.

WHEN I want something more? As if I don't already? As if I don't long, achingly, every day of my life for something more?

The problem, of course, if that he is right. And wrong. I want both nothing and everything more than food.

not making a statement

I am not stepping on my scale. You can't make me. This is not a statement about the tyranny of weighing ourselves. This is not about rejecting the notion of the mythical "ideal weight." This is not even about taking a stand against my obsessive-compulsive nature. This is about fear. Plain and simple.

If I look at the scale, I will cry. Therefore, I will not look at the scale.


Not until I can pull my favorite pair of capris up over my big fat rear end again.

pre-binge melancholia

having one of those days... not feeling well AGAIN... still not over the FOURTH sinus infection of this winter/spring... feeling like crap tonight and feeling fat and miserable to boot... i've started four new posts and haven't had the clarity to finish a one of them... so much running through my head and nowhere near the time necessary to get it down "on paper"... these are the times when i think, "who the hell am i kidding?"... i'm never going to get this weight back off... i'm never going to complete a manuscript... i can't even complete a clear thought... i can't even get a moment to myself, and when i do, i feel so tired and lousy i can't do anything productive with it anyway... there is so much i'm hungry for... so much more that i want my life to be... knowing how to get there and getting there are two very, very different things... for tonight, it looks like having chocolate cookie crumble ice cream and going to bed early... tomorrow morning, it will look like getting my fanny back to the gym... hopefully tomorrow night it will look like complete sentences and finished posts...

a matter of trust

It is 9:00 Wednesday morning, and the children off being educated for the day. I've not managed yet to find a sufficient diversion, so I am stuck with a dilemma. What do I do with my morning?

I've not been to the gym since last Monday. With the exception of a few one mile walks around the block with the kids and a brief walk with my roommate over the weekend, I've not moved my fanny at all. So am I going to move it this morning, or not? Truth be told, my body doesn't feel like moving. It is tired, sluggish, a little achy, still recovering from yet another sinus infection and the monthly interruption to all health and sanity. What I want to do is to go back to bed.

On the other hand, my body is restless. Used to working out five times a week, it is straining at the bit somewhere deep inside, ready to be let loose. I need to get out and move. It is a rare day when these competing forces don't exist in conflict, when I actually feel good and want to exercise at the same time. Lately, if that miracle occurs, it usually is on a day when I wouldn't have time to do it anyway.

Geneen Roth, in her book Breaking Free from Emotional Eating, speaks frequently about the need to trust our bodies—to listen to them and learn their cues about eating or exercise and to regard those cues with respect. "Remember that your body does not want to destroy you and will not go haywire as soon as you let down your guard. Trust that the two of you are working for the same end—your health, your happiness, your peace."

Therein lies the problem. I do not believe this for a moment. I do not believe that my body is a benevolent force intent upon my health and emotional well-being. I have chronic pain. I have IBS. I have a life-long weight issue. What, exactly, am I supposed to find trustworthy about these things and my inability to rectify them?

Let's take the last three weeks as an example. In a moment of desperation and insanity, I went on a strict two week diet and actually lost six pounds. I was ecstatic. I finally had some momentum going. I went to a cookout at my brother's house and was a little freer than I should have been. Over the next week, I relaxed my guard and tried to eat "normal" again. I didn't pig out. I didn't binge every day. I ate fairly reasonably, although not perfectly. I don't know what I did that was bad enough to undo all I'd done. But here's what I can tell you with certainty: I did NOT eat enough food in that week to gain six pounds, but that's exactly what I did. Put every last pound back on my sorry, fat butt and then sat on it and wallowed in self-pity for a few days.

When left to its own devices, my body raids the kitchen for carbohydrates and plops on the couch with a book or my computer. What is there to trust about that? If I trusted my body, I'd weigh 240 pounds again, have a headache every waking moment, and be bloated 24/7. I can't make friends with that. I just can't.

So it logically goes to follow that, if my body is the place within which God resides, and I can't trust my body, then I probably can't trust Him, either. And if I don't believe I can trust the God "who is able to do exceedingly more than I can ever ask or imagine" to bring freedom from headaches and stomach aches and endless obsession and bondage, well, then I'm pretty much screwed.

And that is a much bigger dilemma than whether or not to hit the gym or hit the bed.

shame on you

Now that we've established I'm neurotic, we might as well jump right in.
There are common threads that run through all of our lives, weaving the fibers of each individual story together in one large textile. As I look back over the fabric that represents my life to this point, there is a dark, thick thread that stands out throughout most of the piece. It starts somewhere around elementary school gym class and winds over and under nearly every memory since, overshadowing the colors with its dark, foreboding presence. It tangles around friendships, around stage costumes and prom dresses, around family holidays, around playing on the playground with my children, around sex with my husband, around looking in the mirror on a daily basis. It both holds together and tears apart the entirety of my life's story. That thread is called shame.

From the first time Donald Houchins said to me, in his puny, nasty voice, "Boy, your legs look big," it began. I wasn't just embarrassed. I was ashamed. When my costume didn't fit for the spring musical, I wasn't just embarrassed, I was ashamed. When my wedding dress had be let out a size, I wasn't just embarrassed, I was ashamed. When years of depression and two pregnancies launched my weight to over two hundred pounds, I wasn't just embarrassed, I was ashamed. And now, when a change in seasons has created a change in my waistline, my response it not just embarrassment. It is shame.

I wear it everywhere I go. It is most evident in the large, loose clothing that falls away from my frame to cover the way my midsection oozes out over my pants. But if you look closely enough, you can see it in my face as well. The tentativeness in my smile, the sad, fearful look in my eyes. If you're perceptive, you may notice they way I avoid your gaze or the way I constantly fold my arms across my middle, as if to protect myself from your appraisal. You may recognize the way I constantly pull my shirt down farther or pull my waist band up higher or hide behind the nearest thing to hide behind. But then again, you may not. Because hiding behind other things is something I do well.

Whether I've managed to hide it from you or not, it is there, though I've yet to fully figure out why. Much has been written about glorifying thinness and vilifying fatness—I'm sure there are judgments I've made along the line, both of myself and others. I'm also sure our culture deserves a lion's share of the blame that is to be taken. After all, if I lived in the Elizabethan era, I'd likely be the subject of an oil painting. But I don't, and I'm not, and I digress.

When I lost weight, for the fourth time, I was proud of myself. When I kept it off for four years, I was proud of myself. When I finally fit into a size ten, I was proud of myself. Now, I am gaining weight, and I am ashamed. I want to cover my body with a multitude of layers and hide in my house until it's gone. I want to cry every morning as I attempt to get dressed and still can't fit into most of my clothes. I want to eat chocolate ice cream and Kettle Brand potato chips to numb the despair and depression throbbing in my chest. I want to run-run-run as fast as I can from myself, from my hunger, from my emptiness. Oh, and I want all my friends to get fat, too.
But above all else, I don't want to tell you this. Because probably more than anything else, I am ashamed that I am ashamed. I know better. I am a fairly smart woman. I have two masters degrees. I graduated with a 3.99. I'm writing a book. I speak to groups about weight loss and a healthy attitude about weight and food. I help other people find freedom. I thought I'd found it, too. But losing weight, and even keeping it off, is not the same as finding freedom, as it turns out. And I still, apparently, have a long, long way to go.

Perhaps there will be a day when I will finally rip out all the dark, heavy threads that overshadow my life's story--but then again, without them there, what will hold those scraps and pieces together? Perhaps, instead, I must focus on putting down the entangling strings of shame and pick up instead the golden, gossamer threads of grace. They are thinner and more delicate, and much harder for my clumsy fingers to handle. But they shimmer softly when they catch the light, causing me to smile for a moment, despite myself. If I don't put them down, perhaps, in time, I will learn to weave something of value with them.

disclaimer

I should have walked tonight. Instead, I spent the evening recovering from the busyness of the day and the misery of YET ANOTHER SINUS INFECTION. I am achy and exhausted and devoid of patience, not to mention depressed as snot. This has been my life the last six months. And this is where it has gotten me.

Over the last week I have written snippets here and paragraphs there, all part of trying to sort out this deluge of emotion surrounding the thickening around my middle. But I've not managed to post a single one of them. My hope has been that this blog would be the place for me to sort some of it out and perhaps find freedom. Problem is, I'm finding I'm afraid to write about it. Why? Because it's not pretty. And I want my life to look pretty.

It's not pretty to admit that I think about food and my weight and my body nearly 80% of my waking hours. It's not pretty to admit that I still struggle with compulsive eating, even after all this time and knowledge. It's not pretty to eat on occasion to the point of feeling sick to my stomach, just because "I won't get to have this again for a while." It's not pretty to look in the mirror and see 240 staring back at me. It's not pretty to realize that I am withdrawing from life, hiding in big sweatshirts and BSG episodes, all over 10 or 15 pounds. It's not pretty to recognize the self-hatred that has shrouded my frame like a big, black trench coat, attempting to hide all that I don't want anyone else to see. But if I don't let you see, if I don't look myself, there can be no freedom.

I want to post a disclaimer. I want to warn everyone that what they will find here is not going to be pretty. That the thoughts I think as of late are filled with fear and anger and doubt and self-hatred. That the content of this blog is as self-centered and perspective-less as content could possibly come. That I will go on and on and on about gaining ten-plus pounds, not because of the ten pound themselves, but because of all they represent to me. Then I want to take it all back, and delete the entire blog, and pray that you will forget everything that you've read here and return to thinking, "That Lorie—she seems to have it pretty together, as far having it together seems to go."

I have fought this battle in my head, hidden in darkness, for far too long. I must bring it out into the open, into the light of truth, for the lies within to be exposed. But this openness, this fully exposing how wide and long and high and deep these issues run within me, is not something that comes easily. It is one thing to do it once I'm through it and on the other side, back "together" again. It is another to do it from the trenches—muddy and messy and up to my waist in the mire. It is a struggle to remain "broken open," to not retreat back into my head and allow the words to just spin and spin and spin until they drop to the floor, tired but not spent. Today, I can do it. Tomorrow? I just don't know.

And so this is my disclaimer. I do not have it all together, but I want desperately for you to continue to think that I do. If we can work out a little agreement here where I tell you how awful I am but you still think I'm wonderful anyway, I think we will get along just fine. Perhaps.

more of the same

This is the point at which I go crazy. (Nothing like jumping right in.)

I sat down tonight to a dinner consisting of a six ounce fish fillet, one cup of zucchini, one cup of asparagus, and three cups of plain salad greens. For the tenth day in a row. For someone who loves food as much as I do, this is tantamount to torture. The first night, it was pretty good. The second night, I cheated and put one tablespoon of dressing on my salad. By the fifth or sixth night, my portions were shrinking and my appetite exploding. By night ten, I could barely choke it down. I can’t eat any more.

Let me back up, as the big picture might be helpful. I have struggled with weight my entire life, sliding the little lever up and down the bar in increments that increase with each re-gain. Five years ago, with over 200 pounds on my five foot two inch frame, I determined it would not happen again. I was done. I was going to get to a reasonable, healthy weight and marry it for life.

Over the next year I lost 75 pounds and six dress sizes. At 140, I was in a size ten for the first time since probably junior high, and fairly comfortable with my stronger, trimmer, but still a little big-ish frame. Fairly. I filled my wardrobe with colorful, curve-accentuating clothes, and for the first time in a long time I felt okay. Not good, not out of the woods, but okay. And for someone who had not been okay for quite some time, okay looked pretty darn, well, okay.

I kept the weight off for four years, albeit with many points of struggle and frustration. But I kept it off nonetheless, and I was still hanging on to okay, if only by a thread.

Then came the half-marathon. The carb-craving-inducing monster that made me so hungry I could have eaten my God-awful plaid hand-me-down couch. Then came the injury, followed by the month of rest the doctor ordered right at the beginning of Christmas Cookie Season. Then came the vacation to Florida, and the four sinus infections in the last three months. Then came seasons two and three of Battlestar Galactica, delivered right to my mailbox in a pretty red envelope, paired with my increasing desire to sit on my tired, achy butt and not make myself in the least bit any more uncomfortable than I already was.

I gained ten pounds. My pants wouldn’t button, some wouldn’t even pull up. Tops wouldn’t meet comfortably in the middle—button amicably greeting hole without each pulling away from the other as if in great disdain. And so I did what anyone who has gained weight before would do. I panicked.

I reigned in my eating, when I wasn’t blind-sided by cravings for anything made out of starch of any kind. I tried to work out harder, when I could narrowly carve out the time and the energy to move a muscle or two. I tried to be reasonable. I tried to be moderate. I tried to be healthy. The scale didn’t budge.

Panic grew and spread like the layer of fat sprawled across my backside. My weight consumed my every thought—trying to figure out what to wear, what to eat, what to do. I was at a point of despair. So I did something desperate.

I went on a diet. A restricted-calorie, clean-eating, metabolism-bursting “lose ten pounds in three weeks” diet. I knew better. But desperate times call for desperate diets. I sucked it up and cut veggies and boiled chicken and broiled fish and I followed it 99% perfectly for ten days. The first five days, I lost four pounds. I was tentatively hopeful, but terrified to really let my mind go to anywhere vaguely resembling hope. I’ve been here before. I know the terrible truth. When push comes to shove, none of it matters. My body can’t be trusted.

The scale has read 150.2 for the last four days. I’m still following the diet. I’m exercising as I can. I’m doing what I’m supposed to do—I’m following the formula. I’m not losing any weight.

THIS is where I go completely crazy.