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 🙂
