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...

the tenacious ten: day five

I wasn't going to weigh myself today.  Then I was.  Then I wasn't.  Then suddenly I was standing on the scale in the middle of my bedroom, holding my breath and hoping I wouldn't regret the un-decision.

146.6

I exhaled with no small amount of relief.

The weight-loss gods have smiled on me and my small, square, electronic device.  We have found favor in their eyes, and they have rewarded me with a smaller number than the last time I stepped on this cursed piece of machinery.  Five pounds.  Again.  I figure that's about 5,000 I've lost, total.  Over, and over, and over.

The next milestone is 145.  And then, The Blasted Plateau. 

There are those for whom a red flag would raise at the thought of my emotional state being dependent upon the green number at my feet.  I get it.  To them I would reply, You don't get what it's like to be me.

There is no accurate measure of success in my life with scales.  The number fluctuates.  The fit of my clothes fluctuates.  The feel of my body fluctuates.  This is what works for me.  Roughly every two to three weeks, occasionally sooner if I'm feeling particularly neurotic, I get up first thing in the morning and I go to the bathroom.  If I'm feeling brave, I head back to the bedroom, strip down to my birthday suit, pull out the scale, and step on it.  I move it several times to accommodate the inconsistencies in our 100 year old wood floor.  I take the lowest number that pops up more than once, and I let my poor, trampled little sense of hope run with it.  (Unless, of course, the number is higher than the last time.  Then, well, you know what happens then...)

Again, this is what works for me.  And that is, after all, what I tell clients they need to do.  Sort through all the advice, rules, and cautions, and find what works for them in the long run, provided it's not illegal or immoral.  Weighing myself every few weeks, and being affected by the result, is, to the best of my knowledge, not illegal or immoral.  And so I will continue in this manner until something else works better.

I'm okay with the number today.  I'm okay with how my pants fit.  I'm okay with how I feel.  Today is okay.

I won't tempt my luck again any time soon, however...

giving up to gain (or to not gain, as the case may be)

When Jesus says, "Follow me," it's not an invitation to drag our divided heart alongside us as we attempt to follow hard after God... Here's how Jesus describes it: "If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me" (Mark 8:34).

With Jesus, if we want to gain, we must give up.

If we want to be filled, we must deny ourselves.

If we want to get truly close to God, we'll have to distance ourselves from other things.

And if we want to conquer our cravings, we'll have to redirect them to God.

Lysa TerKeurst, Made to Crave

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...

bread

Today was back-on-track day. Or, it was supposed to be back on track day. Instead, I somehow ended up at Panera, with a beautiful chunk of whole grain baguette on my plate next to my soup and salad. And, well, you know. I just succumbed.

Perhaps it is this upper respiratory crud that has me in its grip that weakened my defenses. Perhaps. I just knew that I was going to end up with carbohydrates on my plate, and I didn’t have the urge to fight it this time.

About six weeks into the miracle diet now, and I’m still not quite there yet. I had kind of thought I would be done by now, which I must admit is a bit disheartening. The results had been so immediate and impressive the last time—I expected a similar result this go-round. As usual, life does not turn out as expected. But I’m okay with that. I can slide into a pair of jeans I could not pull up past my hips before Christmas. That means, slowly but surely, something is changing. As long as it keeps moving in that direction, I will not lose hope. Yet.

The good news is there is not a food event on the horizon for the next several weeks, enabling me to concentrate on sticking to my diet for a good three or four week stretch, hopefully getting me to my goal weight by the end of March at the latest. If I can steer clear of Panera and the magnetic pull of fresh-baked bread, I should be good.

I hope.

And to hope, after all, is progress for me.

coming up for air

It never fails. I gain a new resolve to write regularly, to work out consistently, to lose weight steadily, to gain momentum on all the grand undertakings I am attempting to undertake, and then WHOOSH. I get slammed. Slammed.

Here is a perfect example. I finally have a day to write. I got the workout out of the way, I got showered, I sat my butt in front of my computer. This was 15 minutes ago. I am only on the second paragraph. Why? Because I hit some funky key that did some funky command and then suddenly my whole computer was funky and I could type anything into it. Nothing at all. And it took me 15 minutes to figure out how to fix it. I only have five hours today within which to work on my manuscript. Add in getting lunch, and it's down to four and a half. If I check email, write on my blog too long, answer the phone, pet the cat—suddenly I'm down to four or less. Four hours, within the last four weeks, to try to write a flippin book and lose ten flippin pounds and create a birthday present for my daughter and finish the photo book from vacation plan the valentine party and…

Sigh. 15 minutes, when you only have four hours, is extremely frustrating. And here I go again—petting the cat. But he looks so cute sitting here on top of my keyboard… And now it's suddenly been 20.

I need to quit complaining about my lack of time to write and just write. And so I will go. In the meantime, the miracle diet is still progressing slowly but surely, in spite of a birthday party two weekends ago and a women's retreat this past weekend. I am allowing myself to be normal in these settings. To "do all things in moderation." And it is working. There is a grace on it, and I don't lose control, and I get right back on the diet when I'm finished. That, alone, is miraculous. Is this making allowances slowing down my progress? Probably a little. But I can live with that. For now. I have four hours left. I am also making allowances for school events and unforeseen crises and physical therapy appointments and birthday treats for the class. Is it slowing down my progress? Definitely. But I have no choice but to live with these allowances. And so I take a deep breath, and I make the most of my four hours.

Here I go…

weighing in on weighing in

145. A new number on the scale. Though not a very low one. I suppose after my carboholic binge at Buca di Beppo's last weekend, I should be glad it's not 147. But I'm not. I want it to be 140. Because I want to be DONE.

Pants continue to get the tiniest bit looser. But the change seems to be happening by millimeters. I did the Big Diet because I wanted BIG CHANGE, FAST. This is not fast.

But it is change.

I must confess there is fear about the 145 mark. It has been a threshold, in these past two years since I regained 20 pounds and completely lost my marbles, that I have not been able to cross again. These next few weeks will be crucial, both mentally and physically. I must persevere and keep eating meat and cheese when what I really want is a bowl of cereal, eating eggs and bacon when what I really want is bread pudding, eating a chef salad when what I really want is corn chips and salsa. And I must hang on by my fingernails to the hope that this will actually work again.

Tell me this will actually work again.

a different kind of victory

What do you say when your oldest, closest friend and her family want to try Buca di Beppo's for the first time when you're visiting them out of town, and you're on a low-carb diet?

You smile and say, "Sure!"

And then you don't give it another thought.

You eat your cheesy, carby dinner, and you enjoy it.

You eat your dessert that the husband's went back out into the frigid cold to pick up four hours later, and you enjoy that, too.

You don't eat until you feel sick.

You don't eat until you feel like you can't eat any more.

And you don't obsess about it. Too much.

Then you plan to get back on track tomorrow.

This, too, is a victory.

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.

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.

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...)

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…

longing

Been sick again in addition to running around like a chicken with its head cut off trying to get this school year wrapped up. May 29th, here I come! In the meantime, when I can't write the way I really want to, I'm trying to get better at sharing quotes and short little thoughts. Working on slaying that all-or-nothing demon. Not doing so hot so far, but I'm working on it. So here goes.

Gerald May states, in Addiction and Grace, that "we naturally seek the least-threatening ways of trying to satisfy our longing for God, ways that protect our sense of personal power and require the least sacrifice." This truth is behind the title of this blog, which I hope to write more about at another time. Suffice it to say that I believe what I (and all of us, if I may be blunt) am/are really, truly hungry for is more of God--more intimacy, more depth, more power, more real-ness--but I turn to more carbohydrates instead.

Why? Because they are safer. And they taste better. And I know that, as long as I've been to the grocery lately, they will be there. They are immediate. They are satisfying. They demand nothing of me. What's not to love?

I know the Truth. I know it will set me free. But I don't know what to do with that unsatisfied longing May talks about in the mean time.

outrageous!

I once described, with a great deal of bewilderment and, I must admit, the slightest bit of disdain, my husband's bizarre and mysterious ability to not eat a piece of cheesecake simply because he was not hungry. I likewise marveled, within this same post, about his ability to reside within the same house as that piece of cheesecake without devouring it immediately. Such things are, truly, beyond my comprehension.

It appears my daughter has not fallen far from the proverbial tree. On Sunday, my father-in-law treated us to Cheesecake Factory for dessert on Mother's Day. My daughter, or at least the part of her that is like her mother, insisted on having HER OWN piece of Chris' Outrageous Chocolate Cake. The part of her that is like her father could not finish it, and brought it home.

Where it sat in the refrigerator until last night. When I ate it. Because I couldn't stand it anymore.

I refuse to feel guilty about it. She was clearly not going to finish that piece of cake. And it was simply too outrageous, truly, to go to waste. I mean, com'mon—a layer of rich brownie, topped with coconut-pecan frosting, topped with chocolate cake, topped with chocolate chip coconut cheesecake, topped with more cake, more frosting, and more brownie! How could you NOT eat that?!?!

I waited for FOUR days. Granted, I did not remind her it was in there. But, for crying out loud, who needs reminded they have a piece of cake in the fridge!?!?!

So yes, if my daughter asks, I ATE HER CAKE. And it was darn good, too. But here's the scary thing—I think something is going very wrong within my internal wiring. I did something I NEVER do.

I didn't finish it. GASP.

The last three bites—the part where the back of the cake was drizzled with chocolate fudge and huge chocolate chunks—it was too sweet. I threw away the last three bites of Chris' Outrageous Chocolate Cake. Did you hear that?! I THREW AWAY THREE BITES OF CAKE!!! Either something is very, very wrong, or, well, hmm… or something is finally getting right. I'm not sure which, but I'd better go finish the Dark Chocolate Cookie Crumble ice cream before some weird manifestation of my husband rises up in me and decides I'm not really hungry!

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.

deep, cleansing breaths

(exhale)
I am better now.

A good night's sleep, a small downward turn on the scale, and the relief that I can still fit into my shorts—a relief, indeed, on this our first shorts-worthy day—have all come together to snap me back into my right mind.

That, and I'm sick to death of eating fish and chicken.

After a nice, healthy (if you call wanting to cry "nice" and nausea-inducing "healthy") four mile run, the "fast" was broken at Five Guys Burgers and Fries, with only one very, very small order of guilt on the side.

While I know, truly know, that dieting is not the answer, there was a certain shift that was created over the last two weeks—a breakthrough of sorts, if you will. I was able to remember my ability to say no, which had gotten lost somewhere over the winter amidst the roaring PMS and the appetite-stoking sinus infections. My appetite had outgrown me—I fed it after midnight and it grew into something ugly and uncontrollable. These two weeks helped me to remember that I can say no and not die. That is a good thing to remember.

Tonight? Well, tonight helped me to remember that I can also say YES. And that is a good thing to remember, too.

a new blog, more or less

For four and a half years now, I have blogged at colla voce about life in general, from the mundane to the sublime. Parenting, sex, eating, dieting, living, loving, learning--it's all there, and will all continue to be. But as of late, the struggle for freedom from the tyranny of "more" has been overwhelming, and the only way I know how to deal with it is to write. Not wanting to bore my already limited readership with post after post about my weight and food related neuroses, I felt it best to create a separate home for these entries. There will be much more to come--about me, about the title, about my struggle and my desire to be free. But for now, an appetizer...

hunger

…fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies with a large glass of milk… order in the midst of chaos… time… apple crisp, right out of the oven… heart-felt worship… connection with friends, with family, with God… chips and salsa… faith, hope, and love… but the greatest of these is more chips and salsa… time at the piano, at the computer, at the art table… creative outlet… mama mimi’s pizza… intimacy… play-time… touch… fresh-baked bread with real butter… a night out with my husband… freedom… relief… breakthrough… satisfaction… more chocolate chips cookies… warm brownie sundaes with nuts and caramel… apple pie a la mode… the last pack of school lunch cookies… the crumbs at the bottom of the potato chip bag… stale graham crackers out of the back of the pantry… anything I can get my hands on…What am I hungry for?

Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good, and your soul will delight in the richest of fare.

Isaiah 55:2