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.

the morning workout

(Subtitled: #@%$#*&%#@*#!!!!)

While five years of working out consistently has brought about a certain amount of discipline and routine, it has never brought about any type of desire or enjoyment. EVER. I keep waiting for that moment people talk about—I just couldn't wait to get to my workout. It felt so good to workout today. This experience eludes me. I workout because I HAVE to. I workout because if I did not, I would gain 50 lbs just by breathing. Truly. Writing, I enjoy. Creating art, I enjoy. Singing, I enjoy. Hiking, I enjoy. Reading, I enjoy. Working out? I do it because I MUST.

So this morning, because it is my writing day and I wanted to get a full six hours in, because I have to cart my kids to appointments after school, because I have a meeting at the church tonight, I got my warm, comfortable, almost pain-free body out of bed early and went down to a cold, damp basement and trudged away on the elliptical trainer for 45 minutes when I could have been still in bed. For some of you, this will make you roll your eyes in the same manner as my pre-adolescent daughter. You do this daily. Well, good for you. I do not. I have chronic pain and I don't like mornings. This is not my norm. But I did it. I drug my butt out of my comfortable bed and made myself uncomfortable so that I can now plop my butt down in front of my computer in peace, knowing that I have battled the bulge already today.

The war is not over. But today's battle has been won, while it was still dark outside.

You have no idea what kind of a victory that is.

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.

the first official work out of the year

Subtitled: "10 Reasons Not to Cry While On the Elliptical Trainer"


Despite some serious walking over the past few days and the discovery of kickboxing available to me on-demand via Netflix a week or two ago, getting my fanny back into gear for a serious workout was not my favorite thing I did today.


I've never been one of those weird people who LIKE working out. I LOVE to walk. Provided I have company, I can hoof it at a crazy pace for hours. I like spinning. Probably because I get to sit. And because my instructor would play Joan Jett while we climbed hills. THAT I can get into. I tolerate the cardio interval class at the gym. It's kind of almost like dancing, but with a lot more equipment. But strength training? I HATE it. After 15 minutes of lifting weights, I want to cry. After a full workout, I sometimes do.


That being said, I got back on the elliptical trainer today for 30 minutes of leg-numbing hi-lo intervals, then did an upper body workout just for kicks. And while I did not cry, I did not LIKE it, either. If I can walk tomorrow, or lift anything above my head, we'll be in good shape. Until Wednesday, when I torture myself yet AGAIN.


Remind me why I do this?

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.

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.