the tenacious ten: day nine

If surrender is part of the key to freedom, then it must be determined what, exactly, is being surrendered to.

Surrendering implies a battle.  A resistance.  A fight.  So that then begs the question: What am I resisting?  And why?

These are the questions that will lead toward surrendering to the right things.  What I've determined so far is this:

Discipline. I resist discipline because I am rebellious.  Because I don't like being told what I can't do or can't have.  Because I am tired of not having what I can't have.  Because I am tired of not having. 

Reality.  I resist the reality that my body responds to certain things better than others.  Because I want to eat what I want to eat.  Because I rationalize this is practicing all things in moderation.  Because I don't like my reality, and I want a different one.

Rest.  I resist being still because I am afraid I will get fat.  I am afraid I will get lazy.  I am afraid I will get complacent.  I am afraid I will get comfortable.  I am afraid I will get lost in the silence.  And so I don't allow for it.

Leading.  I resist the promptings of the Holy Spirit because I am afraid of what he's going to ask of me.  Because I don't trust he truly has my best interests at heart.  Because I suspect he cannot, or more accurately will not, meet my deepest needs. 

Intimacy.  I resist drawing near to God, to my husband, to my own inner being.  Because I don't believe their love is unconditional.  Because I fear opening my heart to them only to be rejected.  Because I question their motives.  Because I question their hearts.

These are the battles in which I am engaged.  The entities to which I must surrender if I am ever to be captured by Freedom.  I question if I am able.  But I am told I can do all things through the strength of another more powerful than I...

There are battles we all fight.  Things we all resist.  Truths to which we must surrender.  When you feel that fear or rebellion within your own spirit, what is it you are resisting?  Feel free to tell me about it...

for the record...

...looking at Sugardaddy's brownies is not helping the carbohydrate cravings. 

I'm just sayin'...

the tenacious ten: day eight

It is probably not a coincidence, it occurs to me as I struggle to get back on track after a weekend of swerving on and off my path, hands frantically gripping the wheel, that I am currently getting ready to write the part of my book that is about surrender.

Probably not.

I suppose it might be helpful, maybe, to actually practice what I'm preaching.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

No matter how far I've come, no matter how much weight I've lost, no matter how long I've kept it off, it still comes down to this: I can't control it, but I can't not control it.

My weight. My body. My eating. My appetite. My will power. My desire. My thought life. My life, in general. I have no control. But I can't, for the life of me, stop trying to grasp for it.

The Word says he who seeks to save his life loses it. Does it logically follow that she who seeks to lose her weight gains it?

Surrender. Yielding control. Taking my hands off the wheel. Screaming in terror as my car heads toward a tree. Do I hit the tree? Or do I find my way through the forest?

I don't know.

It's out of my hands.

the tenacious ten: day seven

Spent the weekend with a houseful of people and pets, thanks to our alma mater's collegiate choir being in town on their spring break tour.  Entertaining company is always a challenge for me when I'm trying to lose weight.  Or maintain.  Or any time that involves eating, which is all of my life, as I tend to eat on a daily basis.  I have the best of intentions, but once there is Mama Mimi's pizza fresh out of the oven or breakfast casserole likewise fresh, well, the intentions that were so black and white suddenly fade to gray.

One more piece of pizza won't hurt, I tell myself.  Then it's another.  And another.  Suddenly, I've had five over the course of the entire evening.  Why do I do that?  I don't know.  I wish I could figure it out.

I hate it when other people are eating things I enjoy and I can't eat them, too.  I feel punished.  It feels unfair.

I can't stand knowing there is are special foods in the house.  I cannot stop thinking about them until they are gone.  I become completely obsessed.

Here's the weird thing.  We gave up sweets for lent.  So the cookies were not even a temptation.  Why not?  I don't know.

This is what I know, and what I don't know.  The difficult truth is that this eating thing continue to be a mystery to me, despite so many, many things that should make it not a mystery.  I will think more about it tomorrow.  Tonight, I am spent.

taking on the tenacious ten

So. Here's the deal.Seven years ago, I lost 100 pounds. I kept it off easily for five years. In a random and ill-timed course of events, I gained back ten pounds two years ago. I freaked out. In trying to lose the ten, I gained another. I came completely unglued. I'm writing a book about it, so I'll leave you dying for the details, except to let you know I've lost the second ten. But here's the thing.

The Thing is this last ten pounds. I've spent two years trying to take back off a measly TEN POUNDS. I'm going insane in the process. So here is where the rubber hits the road.Now, before I go on, just so we're clear, here is what I do NOT want to hear from you, should you have the urge to say it:

• Maybe this is just God's way of saying you should just accept this current weight. Bull-pucky. God wants me to spend my money to further his kingdom, NOT on a closet full of new Fat Girl clothes.
• Maybe this is your set point. It wasn't five years ago. So I refuse to accept that it is now.
•  Have you tried____________ or ____________ or ____________ or ____________? The answer is YES. All of it.
• What worked for me is ____________. I'm not you. And my body does not respond, in ANY way, shape, or form, to formulas. But thank you for your input. Truly.

That being said, here is what I've determined:

• My body is not responding to gentle, moderate tactics. I'm going to have to get hard core if I want to wear my Fit Girl clothes again.
• I do not WANT to get hard core.
• I am going to have to do it ANYWAY.

Tomorrow I begin Taking on The Tenacious Ten. Hard core. I am following Tosca Reno's Stripped diet, which combines Clean Eating principles with increased workouts. She promises I won't die. That is the best I can hope for. I will chronicle my efforts here, daily, for both your encouragement and amusement.

If Tosca Reno is to be believed, I'm in for a month of hard core lean eating and intense exercising, with the desired result come the end of the month. We'll see which lasts longer here—my efforts, or her book!

(not) weighing in on my week

I'm not weighing myself today, and you can't make me.

The week has been rough. My inner pendulum is swinging again. Everything within me is rebelling against restriction. The struggle has been intense, the mood heavy, the thought life consumed. I am fighting for peace of mind. I am getting closer, but I'm not anywhere near there yet.

I'm finding that, while the commitment to the writing is producing results in that part of my life, it is coming at a cost to other areas. Time, alas, is not a limitless resource. If I spend my time writing, I'm not spending it doing other things. Like, say, exercising. Which is a problem I've not yet determined how to remedy. My thoughts are a bit overwhelmed with it, as of late.

I've been thinking a lot, too, about this venue, and how to best use it. There may be some changes coming to how and what I post here. I think this is a good thing. It just is not quite clear yet what that will look like.

So between the low mood and the lack of exercise and the change of diet and the gray pallor of the day and the fear of the result, I am not weighing myself today. Which is, realistically, a victory. I have overruled the compulsion to seek comfort in the number on the scale. Today.

As for tomorrow, well, stay tuned...

still waiting for the miracle

My scale is broken. I stepped on it this morning, and it said 150.4. I moved it. Stepped on it again. 150.4. Moved it again. Stepped on it again. 150.4. Five different locations on the one hundred year old hard wood floor. Which usually render five different numbers on the scale. Five exact same readings this morning. 150.4

Now, let's review. I've been on The Miracle Diet, which enabled me to lose 100 pounds over five years ago. I regained twenty during The Winter From Hell, two years ago. I'd lost fifteen, and was hovering at 145 for about forever. But I was sticking to The Miracle Diet. And I was going to lose that blasted Final Five and be able to wear the clothes that are hanging, lonely and forlorn, in my closet. By the end of February.

I have deviated from The Miracle Diet Exactly three times in the last two weeks since I last weighed myself. I had a piece of cake. Singular. I had two cinnamon rolls. Plural. I had Chinese with rice. Global. If I put all of that together, it doesn't even weigh ONE pound, let alone five. I fail to understand. But then again, that's par for the course around here.

So, here we go. Sunday starts The Diet From Hell. Because I'm sick and tired of going round and round with this last five pounds. I want my pants to fit--the pants I already fit in once before, for five years. Is that so wrong? No. It's not. Two weeks. I'm giving it two weeks.

And if my scale doesn't say something close to 140 by then, no matter WHERE I put it on the stinkin' floor, well, then it's GONNA be broken.

out of my head

You can tell when I'm frustrated with how things are going. Everything goes internal. I stop writing about it. I stop talking about it. But I certainly don't stop thinking about it.When I'm frustrated, all gets quiet on the outside and the inner rioting begins. But not tonight. Tonight, I will write.

Tonight I will quiet the thought that the diet isn't working. Because it is. It's just not working fast enough and far enough. And that is a different issue entirely.Tonight I will squelch the voice that screams I'm never going to lose weight. Because I will. And I am.

Tonight I will unplug the treadmill of planning and scheming what I'm going to do next when it becomes apparent this isn't working. Because my head hurts too much to follow a pattern of thought beyond the next 30 minutes. And in 30 minutes I will be in bed, so what does it matter?Tonight I will turn down the volume on the inner tapes playing a continuous loop of self-hatred and disgust. Because I don't even have the energy to complain and criticize. And I'm trying to make peace with the body that gets me where I need to go.

Tonight I will give voice to the tiny whispers of hope. I will give voice to the questions and comments from friends about how I look. I will give voice to the fact that I can pull my favorite jeans up over my rear end. I will give voice to my efforts at sanity and moderation. I will give voice to two months of discipline and the fruit of my efforts.Tonight, I will turn on the lights and watch the scavenging roaches that are fear and control scatter back into the darkness. I will leave the light on. I will make a mental note to pull out the Raid tomorrow.

And then, I will go to bed, in peace.

moderation, my fanny

I almost didn't do it. I had been avoiding it lately--afraid of what I'd find and what I'd do once I found it. And so I went for three weeks maintaining total abstinence, in complete ignorant bliss, not knowing what the scale had to say about what my body was or wasn't doing. I'd tell you it was a peaceful, serene three weeks without this constant, subjective feedback, but that would be a lie. Feedback, alas, comes in many forms.

Over the past three weeks, feedback has come in the form of pants that fit better one day, but then clinging exactly the same as they used to the next. It has come in the form of bloating throughout the day to the point of having to peel my pants of at night. It has come in the form of checking my reflection morning, noon, and night, to see if it looks any different. I'm unfortunately no less neurotic simply for having not stepped on my scale.

This morning, however, I am slightly more neurotic for having stepped on the scale. All the feedback over the last few days--pants fitting better, people commenting on how I look, the image in the mirror looking a little smaller--all seemed to indicate that there should be a new number on the scale. And a lower one, to boot. So I took a deep breath, crossed my fingers, and took a gamble. And was immediately reminded once again that what SHOULD be and what really IS do not often line up in my world.

My scale blinked the same flippin' number at me today as it did three weeks ago. Three weeks ago. Are you beginning to see why my body makes me crazy? Three weeks of miracle diet, with very few exceptions, and the scale still reads 145. I don't know what... I don't know why... I don't know how... I can't even complete a sentence. There are so many possible endings to each of those beginnings.

Eight pounds lost, five to go. And the scale is not budging. This scares the crap out of me. Why? Because it's beginning to look like I might need to do something drastic. And I'm just not sure I'm up for drastic.

Over the past three weeks, I had two pieces of pizza and a slice of cake for my son's birthday. I cheated. Yes. I admit it. But I did so in a healthy way. I did so in moderation. I did so in order to not swing from the extreme of legalism to the extreme of anarchy. I felt okay about it. The next weekend was my women's group retreat. I went off the diet for one day--ONE DAY--and ate in moderation what everyone else was eating. And this past weekend, we had a birthday celebration for a friend, and I cheated for one meal. ONE MEAL. I did not binge. I did not go hog wild. I did not go completely off the deep end. I ate what everyone else around me was eating, and I did so in moderation.

Here's what makes me CRAZY. Moderation is not enough. Apparently, a few slices of pizza and a couple of desserts over the course of three weeks, even done in moderation, are enough to completely derail any semblance of progress. That makes me utterly, ragingly insane. If I want to take off this last stinkin' five pounds and fit back into the rest of my "fit girl" wardrobe, I'm going to have to be completely, 100% perfect. I'm going to have to resist eating like everyone else at next week's potluck. I'm going to have to possibly go even more drastic with the diet. And I'm going to have to work out even harder. And I don't know that I have it in me to do that.

Some days, I wish I were just okay with being fat. Some days, I wish I just didn't care. Because some days, I just don't think I have what it takes to fight this life-long battle with a body that wants to be covered in a nice, thick, warm layer of fatty flesh. I know what it takes to do that. And today, I'm sick and I'm tired and I'm just not up for it. Not for today, not for this weekend, not for the month, not for the rest of my life.

Tomorrow will most likely look different. I will try to cling to that and put the blinking number and the swirling thoughts and the raging confusion out of my head for now. As for how I shall succeed with that attempt, well, we shall see...

victory

I did it.

I spent an entire day away from home in a foreign land and stuck to my diet.

I sat in the car with my family as they ate bagels, and I ate veggies and protein.

I watched my husband drink Starbucks, and I had water.

I went to a restaurant and sat at the same table with french fries, and I ate my cobb salad and remained carb free.

I laid in bed while my kids had candy and caramel corn, and I had a fat free bran muffin.

For whatever it's worth, I battled temptation today and went to bed basking in the glow of victory.

One day down, two to go.

crazy making

146. Today's reading on the scale. 146. In case you have forgotten, seeing that this isn't as earth-shatteringly important to you as it is to me, this is the SAME NUMBER AS LAST WEEK.

A string of cuss words is going off in my head right about now. Just as they did each of the five times I had to step on the scale to be sure the reading was accurate. I will spare you from them. Today.

Understanding completely eludes me. People are asking now if I'm losing weight. That's a good sign, right? The scale should reflect that, right? I should feel hopeful, right?

Yes, I know. The scale is not the only measure. We've had this discussion before. There are other measurements to consider. The pants are a smidgen less tight. I can pull them up a smidgen further, fasten them a smidgen easier. That is a measurement. But they still don't FIT, and that is a measurement, too.

The world of My Body is as foreign to me as life on another planet. I do not understand it. I do not have a context within which to place it. And I do not have a guidebook to assist me in navigating it. I long for consistency. Stability. Predictability. My husband has weighed the EXACT SAME WEIGHT since I met him. I have no mental file folder to put that it. I cannot wrap my brain around it.

I know the weight will come off. Well, I hope the weight will come off. And I kind of, sort of, maybe believe that it will. But this process--this random is-it-working-I-think-it-is-but-now-maybe-it-isn't-what-am-I-doing-wrong-this-time roller coaster--makes me completely, utterly, stark-raving-mad in the meantime.

146. Next week it will be lower and I will be sane again. Maybe. But today I am struggling to contain the freak-out welling up within me and just not get on the crazy ride in the first place.

Or the scale either, for that matter.

a measure of trust

146. Today's reading on the scale. (Well, actually, the readings were, in order, 147.6, 146, 145, and 146, depending upon at which spot on our 90-year-old hardwood floor I sat my extremely dependable and extremely expensive electronic scale. I'm going with the average, as average seems to be a theme.)

This is good news. This means I am losing weight. At least five pounds, depending on where I topped out over Christmas. Good news. I should be jumping up and down. So why am I not ecstatic?

We did an exercise on trust in my group this past Wednesday night which I suspect might provide me with some insight. After we took turns being led around blindfolded for five minutes by another group member, we discussed the implications of our actions and feelings when it comes to things like walking out life with The God of the Universe. One of the resounding take-aways from this exercise was the insight that, despite our best efforts and intentions, we could not rationally talk ourselves out of what we were feeling. One gentleman, for example, told of his fear that he was going to hit his head on something, which caused him to haunch over with a hand outstretched no matter how many times he forced himself to stand up straight. I shared the intense anxiety I felt once my leader had taken me up to the balcony, knowing I'd have to go back down again—and how I slowed to an almost complete stop 20 feet from the staircase despite repeated reassurances that we were close but not that close. 

Each of us had a similar story of a similar experience. The inability to trust completely (in completely trustworthy people) because our emotion was short-circuiting our rational intellect.
When all is said and done, I do not trust well. In this area in my life, this manifests in a multitude of irrational and illogical ways. I do not trust the scale. I do not trust the diet. I do not trust the process. I do not trust how my clothes fit. I do not trust how my body feels. I do not trust my body, period. And I don't always trust The One who made it, either.

I may be wrong, but that strikes me as potentially being a problem.

A lifetime of experience with scales and diets and fat wardrobes and thin wardrobes and IBS and chronic pain and healing prayer and hoping-wishing-praying for freedom has left me feeling a little anxious that there is a staircase out there somewhere, and the only way is down. I can tell myself I can trust the diet, but that has not been my experience. I can tell myself I can trust the process, but that has not been my experience. I can tell myself that I can trust my body, but that has not been my experience. I can tell myself that I can trust The God of the Universe, but that has not always been my experience, either.

Despite what the scale says, I feel fat today. My jeans still don't fit right, my stomach feels bloated, and I worry incessantly that this diet is not going to work and I'm not going to get this weight back off. I tell myself the diet is, indeed, working and that it is only a matter of time until the jeans fit and the stomach deflates and the weight is off. But I've fallen down these steps before, and I just can't help but shuffle my feet a bit in apprehension.

146. This is good news. If I can make the choice to trust it.

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.

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.