Lose Control

I’ve had issues with eating my feelings going way back to my childhood. My grandmother did it, and I learned from the best. Instead of saying how I felt, I’d have a cookie. I was eating my feelings and they were delicious. As I got older, opinionated women aren’t always acceptable in polite society, even more so in all sorts of relationships. 

I chose to eat my words. 

My issues with binge eating would wax and wane for decades. When I’m in a depressive funk, it’s the worst. There are a lot of things at play with it as well. Most of the time, there’s a trigger for my funk. Something happens, words are said or unsaid and I hit the drive through on the way home. 

  
All you can eat buffets? Challenge accepted.

Game on.

I also got really complacent for a long time. It’s like a mathematical equation:

RC+F-GS=FAT

(Relative Comfort+Food-Giving a Shit=me being twice the size I would like to be)

The more this cycle continued, the deeper I got into it. And the harder it was to climb out. I came to the conclusion that I would never get out of the hole I had dug, and it was quickly filling with water. I’d rather drown, it seemed, than claw my way to the top.

In October 2015, I had a wake up call. I had bronchitis, and a coughing fit caused a hernia to get worse (that gives you a clue of my sorry state of affairs). I wound up hospitalized, and needing surgery. My surgeon told me that because of my size, I was high risk. 

Damn.

Not only that, but I was heading down a path I didn’t want to. I was considered pre-diabetic, with elevated blood pressure, high cholesterol and triglycerides-not a happy mix. Walking up stairs caused me to be winded. At 45, I felt closer to 85. I had to make a change.

Much to my family’s chagrin, I stopped buying crap. Anything that could be a trigger food for me was gone-no more chips, candy, cherry pop tarts, cookies. My son, for whom I was allegedly buying said junk for, didn’t even notice that this stuff wasn’t there. That was telling. 

I started back at the gym. I’m one of those freaks who actually love working out, but struggle with self loathing so I feel I don’t deserve to feel good. Yeah, it’s complicated. I had to train my brain & my emotions first, which was the hardest. I love picking up heavy stuff and putting it back down. If I get another hernia, I want to have a good story behind it, rather than that Big Mac did me in.

I ditched the soda, which was one of the harder things I have done. I swear I had the DT’s from it. I’ll just have another cup of coffee, thank you very much. I haven’t started drinking as much water as I should, but it’s getting there. My kidneys & bladder are having a party, rejoicing. 

  
In 2 months, I’ve lost 30 lbs. I’ve reached my first benchmark. I’ve attained a few goals. I’ve given myself some gold stars. Seeing those visible achievements keeps me motivated. The best motivation are the noticeable changes. I’m seeing cheekbones for the first time in a decade. Little baby biceps are peeking out. My butt isn’t filling up my entire chair at work. My clothes are getting bigger.

And so are my shoes.

My shoes. 

As in, apparently you lose weight in your feet.

I’m making gains too. I’m gaining self control, discipline and focus. More importantly, I’m seeing baby self esteem starting to emerge. I’ve used no as a complete sentence. I’m speaking out instead of shoveling food down my throat. Those two have the hardest for me, as well as others around me. That’s heavy enough.

No more weight. 
 

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