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.

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...

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!

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.

big as a barn

One and a half weeks into this diet and I feel as big as a barn. One of those big red ones. Someone could paint "Ohio: The Heart of it All" across my backside and put me along I-71 north and someone would come and take my picture with some very nice cows and a split rail fence and put it in Midwest Living or something. It will make for a very nice photo spread, but it will take both pages. So be sure to check for it next time you're at the grocery. Will probably be out sometime in March. The banner will read something like: Big Ass Barns and Big as a Barn Asses. Or something like that.

Of all the completely inane things people repeatedly tell me when they know I'm struggling with my weight, possibly the most incredibly aggravating is "Don't go by the scale. You have to go by how your body feels." Um, yeah. Right. Did I mention my body feels as big as a barn?

The culprit today, this very moment, is the pending arrival of that which arrives for a woman every month but no one talks about in public because it's not polite. How does my body feel? Bloated and huge. The culprit yesterday was Splenda—not something I usually ingest but was without options and simply could not bear the possibility of straight tea with nothing to make it roll around on my tongue a bit. Bloated like a balloon. The culprit last week was coming down off the carbohydrate hangover from being at my mother's for Christmas. You guessed it. Bloated and huge. Daily, weekly, monthly. My body is not a reliable barometer for that which is going on in the weight department.

Case in point: I can put on a pair of jeans in the morning that fit comfortably, and by the time I get home in the evening the waistband is cutting off circulation and I'm peeling them off. Case in point: I can step on the scale in the morning and be pleased, and step on it again in the evening (not that I do any longer) and be dismayed by the five pound difference. Case in point: I can eat the exact same thing my husband does over the weekend, portion size and all, and wake up Monday unable to get into the pants I wore comfortably on Friday while he notices no difference whatsoever. Ever. My body, and the way my clothing responds to it, are no more dependable than the scale when it comes to gauging progress.

So, if I can't trust the scale as a measure of progress, and I can't trust how my body feels or how my clothes are fitting, then to what do I look for reassurance? For hope? For the magic marker that says, "You've succeeded?" What can I trust?

The little voice in my head that says what I think people are going to say says You need to trust the process. I ignore it, and it says it again. This time I give the voice a dirty look. Yeah. Right. Trust the process. I'll get right on that. Two years of trying to get this weight back off. Two years of a number of various and sundry "processes," none of which have obviously been successful or I wouldn't be here writing this post about trying to lose weight. Again.

I don't trust the process. The process doesn't work consistently. My body is fickle. My metabolism temperamental. My fat persistent. The process is no match for their tenacity. I can't trust the process. My fat out smarts it every time. So where does that leave me? I can't trust the scale. I can't trust my body. I can't trust the process.

Pssst! Psssssst!!! The little voice in my pipes up again. You can trust that there is purpose in this. God has a purpose for this season. Death glare to the little voice. Now I'm really irritated.

I decide not to bicker tonight. Too much already going on in my head to take up with this argument. I will consider it, but only begrudgingly. Because, to be quite frank, it really torques me off.

My new copy of Midwest Living peers out at me from under a pile. Cupcakes on the cover this month—not a barn in sight. But rest assured, if there are cupcakes on the cover this month, the barn issue is sure to follow shortly. Especially if they're made with Splenda.

a new year, a new diet

Subtitled, "You Know You're Desperate When You Begin The New Year's Diet on December 27^th."


Two years and still the same @$#%*@! 15 pounds clings to my midsection. Here is what I know:

1. Dieting at my mother's house is not only an impossibility, it's insane.
   
2. My body loves me some carbs. My figure does not.
   
3. Eating clean and exercising regularly is not enough to overcome the carboholic fanny pack I've accumulated.
   
4. Going low carb has worked for me. It has been the ONLY thing that has worked for me.
   
5. I am going low carb again. For 15 pounds.
   

Bought a big honkin' bottle of Benefiber at Costco, and we're good to go. Literally and figuratively.


Cheers! Here's to getting off this crazy ride!

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.

the best laid plans...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can ignore it for a while.

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

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.

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.

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.