Tag Archives: food addiction

The Wrong Kind Of Tasty

In the here & now, ,

If I were to try and define my dieting week in a few simple words, I would probably boil it down to two buffets, two working dinners, four lots of calorie carnage and a handful of steps in the wrong direction. But strangely, no recriminations. Well, not from me anyway. I wish I’d held the line but I didn’t. I tripped up, but now I’ve dusted myself off and hopefully my three-day dalliance with the fuck up fairy will be netted out by the days where I was able to look myself in the eye and know I’d turned in a textbook performance.

I did get a telling off though, from a lady who reads the blog who is frustrated at my lack of progress and is also holding me responsible for the fact that she’s eaten three big bowls of pasta this week.

It rattled me a bit, I’ve got to be honest. I mean, that’s my biggest fear, you know? I love the fact that you guys are walking every step along this path with me, and I draw so much strength from your company and your encouragement, and your wise words when the going gets tough. Equally, I feel honoured that you allow me to share your journey too. But I’ve always worried that I might be setting a bad example when I face-plant into the wrong kind of tasty and then tell you all about it.

I’ve always justified it in my own mind by telling myself that you all know I write the blog to keep myself accountable, and I’ve never pretended to have all the answers. To be fair, any one of you could probably hold this blog aloft as a shining example of how not to lose weight, because a lot of the time I’m very successful at not losing a fucking ounce.

I didn’t approve her comment, so you won’t see it in the thought threads…it had a tone to it that I didn’t much like, so I filed it in the shit tray. In any event I suspect you lot would have lynched her, and none of us need that kind of drama, right? These are friendly pages. But I think what she was trying to say was that the way I write things down makes her think that it’s okay to cheat on her diet too, because I seem to get away with it and I should take some responsibility and try harder so she can feel inspired and do better too.

She’s probably right.

My problem is, I’ve spent a lifetime not being honest with myself about the reason I’m fat. I’ve shied away from being accountable, and I’ve blamed the size of my arse on everyone and everything except my fucked-up relationship with food. Being honest this time, and hiding behind nothing at all is the only reason I’m still here.

So lady, I’m genuinely sorry if you’re not getting what you need in these pages. I suspect you’re in the wrong blog. Maybe you could try and find one with pictures of smooth-limbed skinny string beans sipping cucumber water who are itching to tell you all the reasons why they’re so fucking perfect.

I’m not there yet, and it might take a while 🙂

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I Wish I’d Written That

In the here & now, ,

I read something really profound the other day…it was a post written by Holly, one of my favourite bloggers. I guess we all have certain blogs that we love to read, and I suppose like many of you who poke around the blogosphere I often find nuggets of wisdom from fellow travellers that help me in my own journey.

From time to time I read something and wish I’d written it myself, you know? This was one of those times. Holly wrote a blog post called Food Is My Person, (click HERE to find it) and reading her words was like looking into my own soul. It broke the surface of what I thought I felt about food, and forced me to acknowledge something much deeper. She articulated food addiction in a way that brought me to tears, and I identified with every single word, so I wanted to show it to you.

In some ways yesterday wasn’t a great day for me – it reminded me of the bad old days where a run-in with the Bitch in the Bathroom could, at the very least, ruin my whole day and often torpedo my food plan altogether. There should be some kind of reaction-cam in my bathroom so I could show you how quickly my mood changes depending on what conversation I have with the scale.

There are times when I walk into the bathroom jauntily, convinced I’ve had a good week, then punch the air and walk out just as jauntily. Other times I’ll waltz around the bathroom hopping on and off again multiple times on every damn tile before shuffling out of the bathroom like a condemned man if I can’t make it generate any good news.  I hate that this little glass square has the potential to vacuum my sunny disposition clean away and flick my happiness switch from one extreme to the other in an instant.

Yesterday, the Shitbird Scale started off by suggesting I’d gained a couple of pounds. For the first three or four step-ons it was having no part of this steady downwards trend I’ve been on so far this year. And I knew that couldn’t be right…my food plan has been bob-on and I haven’t put a foot wrong, so no way could I have gained weight.

I walked out of the bathroom with a heavy heart, trying to figure out whether I’d drunk enough water this week, whether I might be retaining fluid, whether I was overdue a poo, whether what I ate the night before might be curled up like a dormant food-baby waiting to be processed…I forensically examined my week, looking for clues as to why I might have plummeted from hero to zero in the weight-loss stakes. My mood headed south at warp speed, I mean I was sour.

I left it ten minutes, and then like a toddler picking a scab I went back in for another go, and this time the shiny glass Shitbird declared a one pound loss. So I nabbed a picture of it real quick and kicked the scale back in its box until next time but it left me feeling wobbly, and that’s stupid. And unnecessary. My input has been one hundred percent solid and my mind is focused. I’m in a good place.

I spent the rest of the day chuntering to myself. The scale has no power over me. Only I have power over me. I am forty two days food sober and I feel great. I am strong and I’m doing this, and that’s all that matters. The Shitbird Scale is a fucking psychopath. 

I might have repeated that last sentence more than once, just so you know 🙂

 

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Knowing Where I’m At

In the here & now, , , , ,

So, Friday night was work’s Christmas doo – if you’ve been reading along for a while you’ll know that the prospect of a big night out generally makes me want to run at warp speed in the opposite direction, but for once I decided not to be an antisocial old git, and I went along. As it turns out, I had an awesome time, in fact I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much.

We’d arranged to have a pre-party face make-over, so by the time we got there I didn’t really look like me at all. We all sort of ended up with a similar version of the same thing, dark smoky eyes and a ton of face paint which I’ve got to say didn’t look half bad, right up until I got a bit warm halfway through the evening and my face started melting…it was nice whilst it lasted though. Except, I looked a bit like a panda. There were two girls doing make-up, and I think I got the rookie, you know?

Saturday afternoon was a low point. I’d woken up with renewed determination that I could kick the Asshole voice into the long grass if he started being a twat, and by 2pm I still had a full house of smart points left. Eating nothing seems to be the safest option for me, you know? I can hold out for ages, it’s stopping once I’ve started that gives me a problem. Anyway I ran a few errands, went for my nails and eyelashes done and then walked Charlie dog before I turned my attention to food.

That’s the point at which it went horribly wrong. I had a full-on binge, having decided that (wait for it, Asshole logic at its finest) since Sunday was my weigh day, and I’d actually given up trying to programme my new scales with the fancy stuff and just taken them upstairs, midnight Saturday was my line in the sand. Sunday I was back on it.

So best buy a Daim cake now because from Sunday when I woke up I wouldn’t be eating anything like that, right? So I actually went to the supermarket and bought the offending article, together with a family sized moussaka. And a large bag of crisps to eat whilst the moussaka was cooking. Not cheese balls, I wouldn’t let myself go there and strangely I didn’t even try.

Having vaporised the moussaka and the crisps, I cut myself a quarter of the Daim cake. It was gone in sixty seconds and oh my days it tasted amazing. So I cut another quarter and ate that too. I was starting to feel a bit sick at this point, but I had that now or never logic going round and round in my head…if you don’t eat it now you won’t be able to eat it at all, you’re back on the diet tomorrow…

The third quarter took a bit of getting down to be honest, but having eaten it I had to go hard for the fourth and final quarter, otherwise my boy would know I’d eaten three quarters of a Daim cake when he got in from work and I’d be too ashamed to look him in the eye. So I ate the lot, and got rid of the packaging in the outside bin before falling into a food coma and dozing in my armchair for a good couple of hours. I woke up feeling bloated and bilious with rampant indigestion.

Does that sound familiar..? It does to me. That was my life, once upon a time and I think I shocked myself at how comfortably I was able to just step back into the bad old days. And I brooded about it for the rest of the day, and into the evening. I felt so sick, which was hardly a fucking surprise.

Sunday dawned, and I didn’t feel any better. And then I stood on my new scale – which by the way will be known hereafter as the shitbird scale – and felt even worse. I wanted to know where I was at…well, let me tell you exactly where I’m at. I’m fifteen pounds heavier than I was when I set off for Cuba, that’s where. 

Knowing the damage I’ve done drove it home to me how broken my thinking has become of late…I thought I’d moved way past all that head spam, but I’m clearly not as free and clear of it as I’d thought. Mary made an interesting point on Friday when she said

…as a side note… it seems like at first naming the Asshole voice gave you power over him. Because you named him and separated him from who you were and what you want, you could say no. But lately… it feels like when you do something you didn’t want to do, it’s because you felt like you couldn’t say no to the Asshole voice. You don’t seem to have that power over him any more, the confidence that you can overrule him, that you can achieve your goal. It seems like you feel like you’ll inevitably give in, so you might as well get it over with…

Mary, you are spot on. I can’t pinpoint the moment in time where I started hearing my own voice instead of his but I’d lost sight of how quickly I can turn a deaf ear and close him down when I feel like I’m the one in control. So, that’s my homework for this week.

Back to basics. Listen for the Asshole voice, recognise him, and give him a big fat kick in the ging gang goolies every time he tries it on. One day at a time. Yesterday was a good day, once I’d got over the horror of the shitbird scale and I even went to bed last night with points in the bank. Not because it was easy, he was chewing my ear all evening as it happens…but I tuned him out.

I’ve forgiven myself for the fifteen pounds…it is what it is, and at least I know what I’m dealing with now, right? It’s time to get this show on the road 🙂

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It Was The Mince Pie That Did It

In the here & now, ,

You know, don’t you, when you wake up brimming with determination that today’s the day you’re going to tip your world the right way up again, but then you go downstairs and eat a mince pie for breakfast that the day is going to be one of those days, where the diet turns to shit before you’ve even left the house.

That mince pie totally set me off on the wrong path this morning. Thirty seconds of heaven, followed by an hour in the car on my morning commute where I sat and sulked at my stupidity, and sang along to no songs on the radio. Not even the Mariah Carey All I Want For Christmas song, during which I normally am Mariah Carey for that brief moment in time, usually at the very top of my lungs.

To add insult to injury, I lifted said mince pie out of its foil jacket on the kitchen counter, right next to my new bathroom scales which are sitting on the counter top impassively – we haven’t eyeballed each other yet – waiting to be programmed. Oh yes that’s right, programmed. User one, name ‘fat knacker’. When I figure out which buttons to press I have to enter my height and my age so it can ruin my day in a bells and whistles kind of way by reporting not only my weight but also my BMI and my water content, although how it knows that is anybody’s guess. I already know we’re not going to see eye to eye.

For the first time today, the Asshole voice tested the water by suggesting that I start again on the first Monday in the New Year. I closed him down immediately of course, good grief if it becomes open season between now and then, I’ll be lumbering into January with some serious regained poundage clinging to my arse. No doubt about it. So I’ll just carry on having these exhausting daily negotiations inside my own head about whether I should/shouldn’t/can/can’t/will/won’t eat whatever the fuck I want.

I know I’ve put more weight on. I can feel it on my body. I just don’t know how much because although my new scales arrived last Wednesday they remain in virgin un-stood-on condition. I tried to programme my details in but it didn’t do what the booklet said it would do when I pressed whatever I was supposed to press, so I gave up immediately and decided to try again later. It’s now eight days later and I’ve just not quite worked my way around to having another go.

Avoidance tactics…self-sabotage…mince pies for breakfast. I’m being a pillock.

But I’m still trying. I’m not giving up, and I’m definitely not starting over on the first Monday after New Year. I’m starting again today.

 

Have a great weekend folks…before you go, I’m delighted to share a new guest post on my Thoughts From The Posse page…thank you Jamie for sharing your story, and I’m sure you guys will pitch in with your support like you always do… 🙂

 

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Choosing My Miserable

In the here & now, , , ,

fat

Well, it’s been an interesting few days. The battle between me and the Asshole in my head has raged on and on to the point where it’s becoming old news. I’m bloodied and battered but you know what, I’m hanging in there. Yesterday was a good day. I ate clean, no naughties at all and I did two classes last night. Before you worry that you’re about to be dazzled by the light bouncing off my halo, don’t be…Saturday was shit and Sunday wasn’t much better.

So it’s been a rollercoaster, you know? It’s weird, I was off-reservation when I got back from Cuba and I’ve been sailing close to the wind ever since, as well you know but it’s fair to say that things sort of came to a head towards the back end of last week when I had to face the reality of what I was doing. I’d somehow got caught up in this whirlpool of self-sabotage for reasons known only to the voice in my head. I told you he was an asshole.

Anyway, a combination of real-life encouragement from some of my buddies and some proper wisdom and insight from you lot is helping me navigate my head to a calmer place. It was something Margaret said which provided the first reality check, in her thoughts on Friday’s post. She articulated beautifully how that first slip is a really big deal, but when the world doesn’t end the second slip feels less important, and on that sliding scale I’d reached the point where saying fuck it was pretty much part of my daily routine.

It’s a bit like boiling a frog, right? I’m not suggesting you should, but if you were to stick a frog in a pan of boiling water he’d immediately jump out screaming. Stick him in a pan of cool water and slowly turn up the heat, chances are he won’t notice how hot the water is until his legs are cooked. I didn’t notice how hot the water had got, is the long and short of it.

God of Pain provided the second reality check. I was talking to him on Sunday about how hard it’s become all of a sudden. In his usual telling it like it is way, he pointed out that I’ve got just two choices. Hate the journey for a while but stick with it anyway and reach my goals, or abandon the journey and hate the life I will inevitably go back to, and probably myself too just for good measure.

Talk about Hobson’s fucking choice, I mean both of them involve me being in turmoil and I’m miserable either way, right? But not really. Maybe right here and now, in this moment I’m pissed off because I can’t eat crap every day and lose weight. But one year from now when I’m rocking my size 12 skinny jeans I doubt very much that I’ll be pissed off at all.

So I’m sticking with it folks, even if I’m doing it through gritted teeth. I am going to do better because I am not going back to that old life. So here’s the thing. It gets harder to remember how I used to feel when I was at my heaviest. When nothing I wore felt nice, when I was so uncomfortable with a huge downer on myself because I knew I looked like a moose. I kind of felt like I needed a reminder.

Yesterday, I had to ferry my mum around to a few medical appointments, and I dressed in a pair of leggings – every lump and bump was magnified to the tune of at least a hundred, in fact who even knew it was possible for legs to be that lumpy? I’d bought them on-line, and let’s just say they didn’t look like they did on the picture when I put them on, you know? Enough said. They’d never graduated from the ‘fashion mistake but maybe when I’m thinner‘ drawer, well not until yesterday.

I teamed them with a top which is a little bit too snug, good grief it was a total car crash…there was nowhere to tuck my extra one hundred pounds into so it wasn’t on display. Never in a month of Sundays would I E.V.E.R go out looking like that…except yesterday I did. The hospital was so warm and I was sweltering but I didn’t dare take my coat off because I knew what a mess I looked underneath…it was a sharp reminder that I used to feel like that all the time. I haven’t, in a while, and I don’t want to again.

It helped. Yesterday was day one of my season two. And I’m sure it won’t all of a sudden get easier again, but I’ve chosen which miserable I’m going after…I picked the temporary one 🙂

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