Tag Archives: support

There’s Safety In Numbers

In the here & now, , ,

So I’m looking ahead to this week with a bit of trepidation, I’ve got to be honest. It’s full of lovely things to look forward to, but most of them involve food. I’m trying not to feel inconvenienced by being on a diet, you know? That’s the wrong kind of thinking and I don’t want to start feeling pissed off all over again.

Monday we’re having a lunch for the seven of us from work who did the trek to Cuba last year…we won some recognition at last December’s company bash for raising the most money for charity, and we’ve just never got around to spending the voucher. It’s well overdue and it’ll be fun to reminisce. Tuesday I’m working in London all day and we’ll be catered at lunchtime, and home late with dinner on the fly. Wednesday evening we have a meal out with the team at work, and then Thursday we’re away overnight at a sort of team spa night which also involves a meal, and more than likely a tipple or two.

My food sobriety has held quite well this week and I don’t know about you lot, but for me it’s always a bit more fragile in the early days of a reboot, you know? That said, I have a whole week under my belt now. I just need to stay focused on dodging the food bullets which will be coming thick and fast from every direction over the next few days.

It’s been a bit noisy in my head over the weekend with the Asshole voice being petulant and demanding. I took Charlie dog for a walk yesterday and it was just a constant barrage of head-spam.

It’s far too cold to be out, turn around and go home immediately. You don’t have any gloves, you might get chilblains. (I’ve never had a chilblain in my life.) Besides it’s muddy up here on the bridleway and Charlie-dog had a bath and a haircut yesterday, you’d better turn around and go home before he gets dirty otherwise you’ve wasted your money.

And your ankles are aching. That must be a sign of something, so don’t overdo it. You’d both be much better curled up in front of the telly with the fire on. You’ve had a busy week, and you deserve to relax instead of walking around in this cold. Even the dog looks miserable, go on and turn around, you know you want to…

On and on, all day. I just couldn’t quite manage to tune it out, but I did manage not to act on anything. I stayed solid. I’ve got no reason to suppose that the Asshole voice will be any less intrusive this week with all the food-fuckery opportunities that are coming my way. I’m also going to be time-poor in terms of opportunities to work out or swim.

I am planning to drink lots of water and plenty of coffee to try and keep myself feeling full. It might only help a little bit, but at the very least it’ll diffuse some of the temptations, right? I’m really lucky to have the support of some good friends who I can message and lean on if I’m feeling wobbly. I’m going to pay particular attention to the way I look because  if I look nice, I feel nice and that helps me stay in control.

I’m doing what I can. The bullets will fly and I’m really hoping none of ’em get me, because I know they’re coming, and I have a plan. It’s silly season and I’m guessing a fair few of you will also be staring the run up to Christmas straight in the eye and wondering just how the actual fuck you’re going to navigate it all.

Together, that’s how. Come on, link arms…there’s safety in numbers and we’ve got this 🙂

 

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The Terrible Two’s!

In the here & now, , ,

I think I might have just realised what’s going on with my head and its refusal to play nicely. Think about it folks, it’s happened…I’ve reached the terrible two’s.

Two years ago to this very day, I’d just signed up with my web host and was trying to figure out what buttons I needed to push to make my words appear on a web page somewhere. As things worked out, no words made it anywhere that day because I just couldn’t fathom how it all worked. But I was excited, and I stuck with it because bizarrely – out of the blue and never having done anything like this before – I just knew that I needed to write.

My first blog post materialised the next day, and they’ve come on a regular basis ever since. Two years in, I get really choked when I think about how you lovely lot have stuck to my side like glue and what’s more you’ve managed to wade your way through just about three hundred thousand words. I can’t quite believe it.

This also means that I’m two years and five days into my diet. And that explains a lot, right? I’m officially a dieting toddler, doing toddler type things…pushing boundaries, acting out and generally ignoring all reasonable requests in the interests of touching hot things which are lying in wait to burn my fingers, not to mention working out how to climb over the safety gate. Yeah well I’ve well and truly figured that one out haven’t I, in fact I’ve turned into a regular fucking Houdini .

All joking aside, I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting over the weekend. Mainly yesterday, which I spent in my own company. I had lunch with a bunch of friends on Saturday, who’d rescued me from another day in front of the TV when they realised that cabin fever was in danger of actually killing me. I can’t even tell you how awesome it was to leave the house. We went to a local garden centre for a bite to eat and I smacked headlong into my own rebellion, again, by dodging the healthier options in favour of a hot steak sandwich with fat chips and coleslaw. I know.

And a Florentine. Two florentines in fact, because I ate one in the cafe and took one home in a doggy bag for my boy. Now, if I look myself straight in the eye, I’m forced to admit that the duplicate florentine was never going to make it as far as the handover. If he’d been home when I got in there’s a slim chance he might have ended up with it, but only because he’d have likely rugby-tackled it out of my hands. He wasn’t there to take on the fight, and in the end it was out of the bag with indecent haste and eaten before I’d even put the latch on the door.

Yesterday also started badly. I had a less than inspiring conversation with the Shitbird Scale, and yes I know a pound off is a pound off, but I’d hoped that the four pounds on last week had been all bandage and now the big bandage is off it obviously wasn’t. So I went downstairs and ate leftover Shepherds Pie. For breakfast.

And then I cried. A proper, ugly cry because really what the actual fuck was I doing?

I’m still trying to pull all my thoughts and reflections from yesterday into a bunch of words that make sense. I need to let them cook for a bit longer and besides, it’s our birthday today so I’m not going to get all deep on your ass. It’ll come when it’s ready.

It’s a proper milestone today. We are two years a blog, and two years a tight-knit community who support the living daylights out of each other, even when one of us is acting like a complete brat.

*Coughs, and tries to look innocent.

I can’t begin to arrange enough words in anywhere near the right order to tell you how much your support means to me, and how you guys are the reason that I haven’t given up. You’re the reason why, two years in, I’m still here and I’m still trying. And today more than ever, out of respect for all the sheer bloody effort that’s gone into this journey over the last seven hundred and thirty days, I’ve rebooted my head, again.

Day one, take…whatever, I’ve lost count. It doesn’t matter. Day one is all that matters 🙂

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The One In Charge Of Me

In the here & now, , , ,

PT

My weekly appointment with the Bitch in the bathroom was banjaxed slightly this week given that I wasn’t here. I have to admit, in the past my Asshole voice would have immediately latched onto the fact that there was going to be a longer-than-normal interval between weigh-ins, and positioned it as a reason why I should take my foot off the gas, you know? Cut myself a bit of slack…I’m happy to report that this time I was having none of it.

I weighed myself a day early on Saturday, and I’d lost one pound. This morning I went for the pincer movement and got weighed again and I’m delighted to report that another of the little blighters has melted away at some point over the weekend, so despite the treats I’ve allowed myself, the balanced approach of earning the right to indulge and managing it within my food plan has paid off. I need to be a bit careful, I mean come on, I’m in danger of behaving like I’m actually the one in charge here. Oh…wait a minute…that’s right, I am 🙂

I was thinking you know, that I should probably try and get a couple of gym sessions in this week whilst I’m off work. I’m still a long way from being fit, and my Cuba Trek is now only 5 months away. That’s twenty weeks…sweet Jesus that’s hurtling towards me like a freight train. I know I have the elliptical here at home and I’m walking a fair bit, but I’m starting to realise that it’s not enough. In fact, it’s nowhere near enough.

When I was in the gym at the hotel yesterday, I wouldn’t exactly say I was pacing myself  against the proper people who looked like they belonged there but I couldn’t help comparing their pace to mine, and it dawned on me that in fitness terms I’m still more of a sloth than a cheetah. And whilst I know I don’t necessarily need to be a cheetah to conquer that mountain range, I do need some of the key ingredients that I’m missing, like stamina and strength.

I have neither. Which is kind of a flaw in my plan, right? In comparison to where I was, I’m a rock star. And mentally, I’ve got it all going on, but in terms of being where I need to be physically, I’m barely off the blocks.

I think this has got to be my reality check. The gravitas of what I’ve committed to has finally made it as far as ringing the bell in my head. Over five days I need to trek 90km of rough terrain, in heat and humidity, and as of right now I still weigh 257lbs. What the actual fuck have I done.

I’m going to have to join a gym aren’t I? I’m looking at it every which way up, and without a proper plan – and someone to push me – there’s no way I’m pulling this off. And there’s no way I’m backing out either, so much as I hate the idea and God knows how I’m going to find time, I think I’m going to have to. It’s time to dig in and start really fucking hurting. I need a Jillian or a Bob in my life. Someone who’s going to make me throw up in a bucket without allowing me break my stride on the treadmill.

To be honest, the very thought of it terrifies me, in fact it makes me want to bungee jump into a river of cheese balls and stay there until the world goes dark. My hamstring is still sore from doing the splits five weeks ago, my knee still hurts a bit and whilst I can walk for maybe five miles or so before I need a breather, that’s an awfully long way from match-fit. However. The responsibility of being the one in charge of me means I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do. The longer term benefits outweigh the fact that in the short term I just about want to shit my pants at the thought. I just need to man up and go for it.

Rightio. Best find a gym then.

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In Search Of Magic Beans

Reflections on past times, , , ,

beans

I felt a bit embarrassed today when I got a visual wake-up-call about how my pre-occupation with food might look to other people. Yesterday I forgot to bring the containers home that I’d taken my lunch to work in, so today my feet were fighting for space under the desk with a double helping of airtight boxes. There were six altogether, plus two large plastic cups which I use to chug my blended smoothie of the day on my morning commute.

On top of my desk, nestled amongst actual work stuff you would have found a punnet of plums, a bottle of salad cream, some emergency crackers and a tin of soup. In the bin behind me were a couple of banana skins and an apple core. It must have looked like I’d been under siege for a month, for God’s sake.

I did do a quick recce on everyone else’s desk and I was slightly reassured to find that there was the odd snack or two kicking around other corners of the office but put it this way, if the entire HR team had been kidnapped by aliens, when Mulder and Scully rocked up to investigate they would have known immediately which desk belonged to the fat girl.

It puts me in mind of a conversation I had with my doctor twenty odd years ago. A friend of mine had been to her doctor because she wanted to lose weight, and he’d handed her a prescription for pills to supress her appetite. I wanted to get me a piece of that action so I made an appointment to see someone at my own surgery with the intention of getting my hands on some of these magic beans. It seemed like the perfect answer.

It transpired that my doctor was a little less accommodating. Actually, he was a twat. He sent me off with a flea in my ear and a long lecture about how fat people were unnaturally preoccupied with food and basically I needed to get over myself. He even illustrated said lecture with a story about his own fat friend, who had joined him recently on a skiing holiday and had taken sandwiches ‘for the journey’, which he used as an example of how fat people were different to normal people, and couldn’t bear not to have food within touching distance. Judging by the way he said it he didn’t mean different in a good way.

I’d give anything to have that same conversation with him now, with my additional twenty five years’ worth of life experience and a slightly lower tolerance for being mugged off. I doubt I’d be able to resist commenting on how lucky his fat friend was to have such a supportive chum, you know? I mean, with the 20/20 vision of hindsight I was trying to go about it the wrong way, but I was reaching out, you know? He could have helped me, if he hadn’t been so busy judging me.

It’s the first and last time I ever talked to anyone about how much I was bothered by being fat. Well, until you lot of course. And I’d like to think that I’d get a more supportive response if I went to chat to a healthcare professional about it these days. I wouldn’t, of course…I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than have that conversation. But still, I hope they’d at least give me some leaflets and a bit of advice.

All joking aside, my jaws have barely stopped moving today – I’ve only grazed on low point healthy stuff but I know I need to give some attention to this phobia of hunger pangs. God forbid one might sneak up on me, right?

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Before I go, I have some hugely exciting news, and I need your help please! Break Out The Skinny Girl is now available on Kindle Blogs, I mean come on!! We have arrived! It’s become available today in the Kindle Store through Amazon…if you read and enjoy Break Out The Skinny Girl, would you do me the honour of leaving a review on your thoughts about the blog? You can find it HERE  It can’t be done on mobile devices only computers or Kindles (no idea why) but thank you, your support as usual means the world to me 🙂

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A Rock To Lean On

Freeform thoughts, Reflections on past times, ,

holding-hands
Who’s supporting you on your dieting journey? I’m not talking about the posse here, I mean that’s a given and we all know we’ve got each others’ back in this corner of the virtual world that we’ve carved out for ourselves…I’m talking in a real ‘day in the life of’ kind of way. Because you know, when we get serious about staying on this road to Skinny Town it’s not just us that have to make changes to what we do, and how we do it…it’s the people around us too.

For me, it’s my son who’s born the brunt of this broken relationship I have always had with food. We’ve never sat and discussed it as grown-ups…maybe we should, one of these days. His perspective would be fascinating – maybe I’ll ask him to write the foreword of this book you’re all encouraging me to write 🙂 But either way, one thing I know for sure is that all he has known, practically his whole life is me either going down the scale, or moving up it. Diet, or binge, with no middle ground.

To be fair, he has the patience of a saint. Well actually that’s not strictly true…like me, he got a raw deal when the patience gene was handed out in vitro…he’s definitely his mother’s son. But despite his short fuse with the little things in life that drive him bat-shit crazy, with me he has all the patience in the world. And trust me when I say he needs it.

He is blessed with an appetite for food that you can get away with as a young bloke standing six feet three inches in your stockinged feet. With the exception of liver, I’ve never found a food he won’t eat, and whatever diet I happen to be on he tucks in with enthusiasm to whatever comes out of the kitchen on any given day.

He can quote points values in food with a higher degree of accuracy than I can. And to my eternal shame he’s seen his own weight fluctuate when I’ve been cooking with no carbs, using lots of protein, cream and fats instead, but serving them to him with carbs too since he wasn’t dieting..he’s got the constitution of an ox and believe me it’s been challenged at times. He’s been supportive of all my efforts, to the moon and back again, whatever diet I’ve been doing, and through every false start.

But over the years he’s learned to walk on eggshells, when he’s seen me fall off the wagon. You know the kind of thing – one day I was dieting, the next there I was in the armchair vaporising a litre tub of Ben and Jerry’s and a large bag of cheese balls. When he tried to talk to me about it in as supportive a way as his twelve or fifteen or eighteen or twenty five year old self knew how to do, it would largely depend on how shit I felt about myself in that moment, or how much of a sugar rush or craving I was in the grip of which dictated the tone with which he got his response.

Trying to broach the subject must have been excruciating for him, and I’m sure there have been times where he’s just bitten his tongue and said nothing. But to give him his due, he’s never said an unkind word, or made a sarcastic comment or even rolled his eyes when I’ve mentioned that the diet’s starting on Monday, and this is going to be the one that sees me crack it this time. He just quietly supported me through it all.

As a mum, I could weep when I reflect back on how utterly conflicted and confused he must have been. It breaks all the rules of being a good parent you know? Being a role model, doing the right thing. Showing, as opposed to telling. When I really look back at how this constant cycle of binge – get fat – diet -get skinny must have impacted on him, it’s hard not to feel guilty.

But I can’t afford to do that – it gives the asshole in my mind too much leverage you know? It’s done, and by some miracle my boy turned into an utterly lovely, funny and warm human being, with a normal perspective on food. And as the person who’s lived that life, I’m not sure before this point I could have done it any differently anyway. I just wish I could have found a way to do this work and sort my head out sooner.

But I’m here now.

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