tackling the tenacious ten

I've started a new series on my other blog, within which I will chronicle my last-ditch, desperate attempt to take off this BLASTED ten pounds I re-gained TWO YEARS AGO. You can link to it here, if you are so inclined.

I've revised the URL to better suit the title and purpose of the blog, and am moving in a bit of a new direction with it. You can now find it at www.thatwhichsatisfies.blogspot.com, but the title remains the same!

Happy reading!

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...

Read more at More...

a measure of trust

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...

Read more at more...

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...

More at More...

if you're up for more...

...just wanted to let you know I've begun blogging again on my other blog, more. For those of you just dying to read more about my endless struggle with food, weight, and the perils of carbohydrates (all three of you), you're in luck. You can visit it here.

more lemon bars, please

All I know is that Helen's lemon bars made me happy. And so I ate several. In addition to my German Chocolate Chip Cookie Bars, which also made me happy. In addition to the "Texas Caviar," which also made me happy. In addition to...

(read more at more)

a matter of trust

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?

(read more at more)

shame on you

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.

(read more at more)

disclaimer

I have fought this battle in my head, hidden in darkness, for far too long. I must bring it out into the open, into the light of truth, for the lies within to be exposed. But this openness, this fully exposing how wide and long and high and deep these issues run within me, is not something that comes easily. It is one thing to do it once I'm through it and on the other side, back "together" again. It is another to do it from the trenches—muddy and messy and up to my waist in the mire…

(read more at more)

too much yes

My mind begins rationalizing. I just want to eat like everyone else is eating (although I’m not—I’m eating much, much MORE). It’s a special occasion (like a Friday… or a Saturday). I won’t get the opportunity to eat this/like this again for a while (like until NEXT Friday or Saturday)...

(read more at more)

more of the same

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...

(read more at more)

something more

a friend of mine emailed me today "pleading" with me to post something. "i know you're in a raw place," she acknowledged, "but it's such a treasure to read your heart. more, more, more!"

i found that ironic. i've been working, these last few days, on getting a second blog ready. the title? more.

i've been very open on this blog about my struggle with food, my body, my weight. that struggle has been especially intense lately, and the way i process best is to write. i like the current format of this blog, and therefore do not want to devote it solely to the purpose of my neurotic and, let's face it, lame issues. so i have created a home for those ramblings, but will still keep you posted here when this struggle is rearing it's ugly head.

you can read "more" at:

http://www.morechipsmorechocolatemoregod.blogspot.com/

hope you enjoy.

salivating

Three words. Chocolate. Covered. Bacon.

Day four on my diet and my husband climbs in bed with his magazine. I look over and there it is. "Two equally obsessive foods come together in one perfectly balanced bite of savory, smoky, and sweet." Oh. My. Gosh.

I can't sleep.

You can order it for me here, if you're so inclined...

The Pastry Display at Northstar Café

Happy comfort beckons from
behind smudged glass; the folded paper sign reading
“Last Night’s Cookies. $1.00.”
I regard their perfect head-sized shape, irrepressibly
hungry for the warmth in my
center that can only come from the
devouring of half a dozen.
I contemplate my emptiness—the echoing void that calls for
carbohydrates because nothing
else satisfies—and I feel my waist band reminding me that
my pants, if nothing else,
are full.
Mouth watering, I consider home-made
scones as big as bricks and
muffins surely more effective than the
stupid SAM-e I suck down every morning in an
attempt to forget my
troubles and common get happy.
Surely…
I take a deep breath, trying not
to think of all the happy cookie-eating people in the
world, trying not to think of the empty growling in the pit of my
psyche, trying not to think of just how deep that
sadness goes,
and I look away
and
order
a salad
instead.

a perfect ten

My pants cling tightly to my thighs with the same maddening tenacity as the growing layer of fat that stubbornly clutches my already-large-ish frame. This morning, I hate them both.

It all began, to my best estimation, with the marathon. Training for a marathon, it turns out, makes you hungry. To be more specific, training for a marathon makes you insanely crave carbohydrates to the point at which you think you will die (or kill) if you don’t have bread. LOTS of bread. For someone with insulin resistance, this creates a problem. The craving grows. It gets out of control. You try to fight it, but it is not something outside of you. It is within you. And it is winning.

Then, just for fun, you throw in an injury. You need to give it time to heal. It is Christmas. Brilliant. A month off of exercise right as the biggest carbohydrate celebration of the year cranks into full swing. Beautiful. Then add vacation. Add winter. Add snow days. Add illness. Add depression.

Add ten pounds.

Six weeks of trying to get back in gear, and the scale is going UP, not down. This is the point at which I go crazy.

I know all the right things to do. The right things to think. To say to myself. To pray about. I know. I KNOW. But knowing, in my life, doesn’t translate to anything changing, no matter what application I am currently running. There is some problem with the file—some virus, some mutation—that prevents the “losing weight and keeping it off” program from running properly. I don’t deal well with that. Input in should equal input out. Decrease calories and increase exercise should equal weight loss. It should be that simple. It appears to be for everyone else.

But, alas, I am not everyone else. And some days, I really, REALLY hate that, too.

top ten reasons why i need chocolate chip cookies

1. I just spent thirty minutes reading and talking with my daughter about puberty. I had to say words like "breast buds" and "pubic hair" and keep a straight face.

2. I was going to do yoga tonight. I have a sinus infection instead. Which means I have a headache, as well. I am not down with doing "down dog" with a headache. And no, that is not a double entendre.

3. I didn't work out yesterday, either, because of the same infection/headache. I've gained seven pounds since Thanksgiving, when I took a month off from working out because of my knee.

4. I've gained seven pounds.

5. I've gained seven pounds.

6. I'm still stuck in the imbecilic "eating chocolate chip cookies will make me feel better about gaining seven pounds" frame of mind. And nothing will convince me otherwise. Until, of course, about five minutes after I've eaten the cookies. And then I will be morose. For days. As I sit on the couch...

7. I drove home in the snow. During rush hour. With a couple hundred people who apparently have never seen snow before in their lives despite the fact they LIVE IN THE MIDWEST FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!! Say no more.

8. I'm fried. Overwhelmed. Burned out. Kaput. Maxed. At my limit. Over the top. On my last nerve. I want to run away. Far away. For, oh, about a week. Or a year. Or ten. (Cookies would be much less traumatic for my family--can we all agree with my rationalization?)

9. Did I mention I've gained seven pounds?

10. Sometimes, you just NEED chocolate chip cookies. "It's a need, it's a true need, it's a straight-up-undeniable-ain't-no-mistaking-it-for-somethin'-else need..." (Thank you, Charlie Peacock. Of course, he was talking about forgiveness... But let's not quibble.)

I'm off to preheat the oven. See you tomorrow, when I complain that I've gained eight pounds...

a poem on driving myself crazy

the diet

endlessly striving
always resisting
never attaining

gains and losses

I knew better, but I did it anyway. At some point this morning the voice of reason was drowned out by the voice of immediate gratification, and I went ahead and did it. For the third time this week. And the outcome hasn’t gotten any better.

The reassurance I sought as my feet met cold metal was replaced with despair. A beep, a whir, and a blinking number. 144.0 … 144.0 … 144.0 … 144.0 I slunk down off the scale, my thoughts racing, and began to prepare for the morning ahead.

Crap, I thought, digging through my fat clothes yet another time. What the heck? I’ve been on this diet almost two weeks now—the scale is supposed to be going DOWN, not up! I tried to quiet the tirade, to no avail. Why won’t my body do what it’s supposed to? I’m following the diet perfectly—how the heck did I GAIN two pounds over the last few days? The food itself couldn’t have even weighed that much! MAN I hate this…

I laid the clothes on the bed, remembering it was a work-out morning. Hearing the kids playing peacefully below, I decided to boot up the computer and email one of my “talk me down off the ledge” friends. “Tell me I can do this,” I pleaded with her. “Tell me this is going to work. And tell me to stop getting on this stupid scale!”

Of course, she’s told me all of this before, many a time. But listening is not my forté. Being impulsive and neurotic is. Fortunately, she is not put off by my neuroticism, though I would not blame her, after seven years of listening to the same ol’ same ol’, if she finally told me to just shut the heck up and get over it. But, of course, I wouldn’t listen to that, either.

These last ten pounds have been the bane of my existence for, oh, I dunno, about two or three years now. But the weight itself, well, that has been a lifelong preoccupation. Another of my “talk me down off the ledge” friends reminds me with great regularity that it’s all about perspective. I’ve lost a significant amount of weight and kept it off for several years now—who cares about the last ten pounds?

I care about the last ten pounds. Despite my best efforts, I care very much. Not because of the number on the scale, but because of how my clothes fit. Because of how my body feels when it gets there. Because of how my body looks when it gets there. And ultimately because of what that number represents.

The moment I first became aware of my body a life-long tug-of-war began internally and hasn’t let up since. I have cursed my body. I have hated my body. I have tortured, tricked, treated, and tormented my body. But I have never once, in 37 years, come to trust my body. That is, perhaps, the greatest loss of all.

I have gained strength, I have lost weight. I have lost self-control, I have gained muscle. I have gained confidence, I have lost hope. I have lost flab, I have gained perspective. My husband has weighed a steady 118 lbs since the day we met. His attitude toward his weight remains likewise unchanged. I am not as fortunate. For me, life with my body is a constant roller coaster of gains and losses. Perhaps one day I will be at peace with this fact.

Perhaps one day.

just five or six more...

The scale read 140.0 two weeks ago. Tonight it reads 148.0. I stare at the glowing number in despair, my heart sinking, though not with surprise. How could I possibly be surprised, when I knowingly binged all afternoon?

Today was the low point of a slowly-gaining-momentum roller coaster ride—emotions out of whack and appetite out of check and my weight as up and down as the track. I can hear the clack-clack-clack-clack of the cable as I begin another ascent—up to the height of my irrational fear—and for a moment I perch motionless at the top before careening down a slippery slope of trying to control my never-satiated need for more. I clutch the crash bar for dear life, knuckles white, cursing myself for getting on this ride, knowing full well I never could handle roller coasters.

When did I first find myself back in this car, belted and barred and unable to place my hands and feet on solid ground until the ride has come to a complete stop? Until recently, life had become a fairly mellow ride—more like the Matterhorn—round and round and round with its predictable ups and downs. Things were steady—eating healthy, exercising regularly—and then a small dip—a weekend barbeque or a wedding reception—then back to steady, steady, steady, dip, steady, steady, steady, dip. It felt reasonable. It felt healthy. It felt (dare I say?) normal.

It doesn’t feel that way any more. For whatever reason—my monthly cycle, side effects of a newly-tried-then-newly-discarded medication, depression, spiritual attack—nothing is steady now. Not today. Not this weekend. Not this week. Not ever again.

I am, of course, becoming dramatic. This is because drama is what I do. It is much more compelling to write that nothing will ever be okay again than it is to write that in another two weeks I will be back on track and the scale will read 140.0 again. And, truthfully, it FEELS like it will never be okay again. It FEELS like I am 240 lbs and doomed to stay there, or, worse, increase. It FEELS like I have changed nothing and made no gains against my formidable appetite. It FEELS like I am still the sad, pathetic, lacking-in-willpower creature that I FEEL I have always been. I have lost. The battle is over. The white flag is up. I surrender.

(Pause for dramatic effect) Sigh…

(In a hushed, subdued tone) I surrender. I am desperately, hopelessly hungry, and there is nothing—NOTHING—that satisfies. Not Oreos or beef brats or corn on the cob or sweet potato chips with dip. Not pizza or strawberry pie or nachos or cranberry oatmeal cookies. I eat one, I want another. I eat another, I want five or six more. My stomach says, “enough.” My waistband says, “enough.” My spirit says, “enough.” My insatiable appetite says, “more, more, MORE!!!”

I am not satisfied. It is not my stomach that growls, empty and discontent, but my heart. I am hungry for more than my pantry can ever hold. I surrender—not to my appetite, but to He whom I am hungry for.

Delight my soul in the richest of your fare, Lord (Isa 55:2). I beg of you—meet me here, at last.

more than a conqueror (a pantoum)

The white flag is raised—
tattered and torn, it whips back and forth in the wind.
I surrender…
there is no fight left in me.

My spirit is limp—
tattered and torn, it whips back and forth in the wind.
Weariness like a mountain weighs upon my shoulders.
There is no fight left in me.

I am overcome with despair.
My spirit is limp—
where is my hero now?
Weariness like a mountain weighs upon my shoulders.

“All-consuming-yet-never-satisfied-wants[1]” declare victory…
I am overcome with despair.
A conquering power brings the enemy to its knees[2]—
where is my hero now?

Two sets of hands reach for me—only one may claim me.
“All-consuming-yet-never-satisfied-wants” declare victory…
but faith will overcome.
A conquering power brings the enemy to its knees.

There is another who fights for me—
I surrender
to the one whose blood was shed in victory.
The white flag is raised.

___________________________________________
[1] Galatians 5:19-21, MSG
[2] 1 John 5:4, MSG