Down In My Back

A few days ago, I woke up with a splitting backache. Not the kind where you need to go to the emergency room or anything, but the kind where one muscle decides to go renegade and generally hurts like the dickens. I guess I slept on it wrong, which is a strange expression if you think about it, but remarkably accurate in this case. I would love to believe that someone in my life might say "well it's no WONDER with the way you cooked last week, poor thing! Next year WE are cooking and you will just relax!" Sure. Right. My present station in life tends to lend itself to self-abuse before a hot stove to celebrate the holidays, for some reason.

Fresh out of Thanksgiving week, I decided to engaged in a frank conversation with Dennis (or a Dennis conversation with Frank) about "having my back" when I go through a slump with this new way of living. I told him that if I got discouraged, it was his job to back me up. If I got in a "what's the use?" mood, then he was to instantly start cooking broccoli in the hopes that I would snap back to my senses. The whole time I was telling him this, I was listening to the drone of my voice and thinking that this was futile, it is impossible for those types of words to be heard by male ears-- sort of like one of those dog whistles. You ladies know how men can be.

The post-Thanksgiving weekend went fine, and in spite of the post-pie-syndrome (PPS) which had my body craving carbs, I required no intervention. Then I woke up with a backache on Monday morning.

The backache really threw me for a some sort of strange and unexpected psycho-loop. I haven't suffered since I began this, no virus has invaded, no accident has left its mark on me, and no stomach virus has rendered me pitiful. Suffering often has an unpleasant side effect for me which is simply unexplainable. I know when I am really sick when I cry over cat food commercials. I can't explain the sentimentality that comes with infirmity, I just know that it happens. Being sick lowers my mental age, and causes me to seek comfort and excuses why I can let myself slide. It causes me to want my Momma, to be sweet to myself, and to hold a major pity-party when I still have to get up and go to work anyway.

As the week wore on, I found my initial challenge of being too busy to plan meals compounded with the fact that my back hurt too bad to shop for healthy food. I took a little time off, which meant my husband had to work longer and harder in our business. One day about mid-week, I was home taking muscle relaxers and staying off of my feet when the meal planning just seemed to pale in comparison. I mean, after all, I am in pain, Dennis is working late, and sometimes you just have to do what you can to get by. But then, last week was Thanksgiving, and two weeks before that was my birthday, and when all of these excuses keep lining up, I will never get anywhere, will I? I was frustrated, and felt guilty that I needed Dennis to take care of dinner after he got home after working a 12-hour day. The words of defeat actually crossed my lips, and I said "what's the use, Dennis, just go pick some fast-food up, this is impossible."

What happened shocked me. The man who I asked to "have my back", the man who had worked 12 hours and was finally on his way home at 8PM, the man I thought had stored my request in the same place he stores my requests to pick up his socks said to me "No. I am coming home and cooking us a healthy dinner, and then will clean up the kitchen. You aren't giving up tonight." He did exactly that.

My wonderful doctor told me early on not to let Dennis, or anyone else sabotage my efforts. I was prepared to deal with contraband waved under my nose. I was prepared for complaints about the menu. However, it never occurred to me that he was willing to have my back to this degree.

Since that tough-talking doctor in Houston warned me that 95% of obese people fail at weight loss, I have been thinking about the qualities of the 5% of the ones who SUCCEED. I think having someone to have your back is definitely on the list.

Digesting Thanksgiving Dinner

I can't look into the future. I don't know if I will win the lottery this week, or if I will ever be discovered and become a movie star, or even whether the sun will come up tomorrow. However, there are a few things I know for sure. I know that my dog will always be happy when I get home, and that I will always love my family, and that never, never, will mourners stand over my grave and say "poor thing, she was so stressed that she just starved herself to death."
From the day we are born, we are taught that food is comfort. Our first experiences with being fed are combined with being wrapped in a warm blanket and held next to our mother's heart, as she rocked and sang to us. Well no wonder that when we have a bad day the first thing we want is Oreo cookies! Am I suggesting that, from now on, as a way to remove this human trait, that we systematically blow an air horn behind all feeding infants? I think not. No...I definitely think this is a bad idea. However, as thinking adults we need to embrace the emotions that naturally flow through food, especially if we are one of the humans that God generously endowed with extra fat.
Yesterday was Thanksgiving, and I, for one, am thankful it is over. I have learned that having a plan is paramount to my success as a svelte angel. Together, my sister and I bought a thousand groceries in preparation for the family feast. Our challenge was to scale down quantity while our guest list was being manipulated daily. Having enough food without having too many tempting leftovers while anticipating the sum total of possible diners became a task akin to quantum physics. We divided the menu between us, and two kitchens were filled with the sounds and smells of cooking for two days. I was left unsupervised in a kitchen with most, if not all, of my favorite trigger foods--all carbs! When no one was looking, I did GREAT. I ate only what I planned, and the carb-rich leftovers were out of my house by this morning. I am proud of me.
However, the negative emotions that flowed through me surrounding the Thanksgiving meal were frightening, and this surprised me. Early on I became aware that I was spending too much time planning the menu, and it puzzled me. My initial distorted reaction to this realization was to think "it must be true" --the old, ugly impressions embedded by weight-loss groups or misinformed doctors in my past. My over-planning must be something diagnostic that proves something abnormal about me. These old thoughts have the ability to rob me of my success, in essence THEY are my weight problem. When I really drilled down into my thoughts, I realized that I sincerely was not excited about the food that was ahead. I was just over-planning the planning! I am so determined not to fail that I not only wanted an escape route, but a hatch within the escape route in case it failed. I have already embraced that my largest obstacle will be my perfectionist traits, setting unrealistic goals and pushing myself too hard--sort of like "no pain, no gain" on steroids. I didn't see this until today, when I found myself surprised at how easy it was to simply be aware of the plan and follow it. The problem is not Thanksgiving dinner, the problem is to be accountable for the calories you consume over SEVERAL days, not the one. Once I embraced that, I could just do it. The unnecessary emotions and fear, were associated with the big picture and emotional scars of my entire weight problem and the years I have spent fighting it. Somehow, someway, I need to remember that the defeatist hammer I sometimes think is poised over me is only there if I let it stay. Tomorrow I can always have a do-over. I am beginning to believe that it is really that simple. Christmas is going to be easier since I learned this.

Undressing a Thanksgiving Turkey

Tis the season to be fat. Let's face it--the holidays are about consumption, including and ESPECIALLY food. I am the main Momma, I am the turkey cooker, the main cheese whiz, the banana peeler, and the person who is responsible for creating the aroma in the house that makes my family smile and feel like the good old days. My dressing is what my kids crave, Mother's sweet potato recipe is lovingly resurrected in her memory, and Anna Beth's chocolate pie is cooked only twice a year and this is one of them. The dance of the sugar plum fairy plays on my TV, Hershey kisses ring like a bell-choir on the tube, catalogs fill my mailbox with every confection known to woman on every page. I really don't wince when I look at chocolate candy anymore--that is sooooo.....yesterday. (sigh) However, I want to cook all of those wonderful holiday sweets and treats that makes my family smile, and then makes me argue with myself in the middle of the night in front of the refrigerator. Seeing the smiles on my family's faces just doesn't cut it for me.
I love watching the Martha Stewart show around holidays. One year, I watched her show at Easter and spent the next week making individual Easter baskets out of pipe cleaners for my Easter table! After that, I wouldn't let myself watch her again. I also love to watch Mad Hungry and the diva of coronary artery disease herself, Paula Dean. I love to cook for the family at holidays, plain and simple. I have slowly allowed myself back on the Martha Stewart show, and saw her make the finest apple pie in the world yesterday. Oh, how autumnal, how lovely, how fragrant! Certainly there is nothing wrong with that! It is just a shame that it contains the sugar-drug that will set me off on cravings and set me up for failure. Evil, evil Martha, with that trim waist and that herb garden. It's plain not fair.
But, it is what it is.
Again I must have a plan. I will cook the fragrant tasties, and I will enjoy my Thanksgiving dinner with my family. I will add some really tasty healthy foods that lend themselves well to the holidays, like.....uh.....well.....let me get back to you on that. The main thing is, I MUST MUST MUST not keep leftovers this year. Inside I hear my voice whining, "but I just looooove Broccoli Rice Casserole and I only get it once a year and I love to eat it for breakfast the next day." That is one of those problem foods for me. You know what I mean, the kind that sings to you, the kind that you can't stop thinking about. I talked to a friend today who just had open heart surgery and told me how he unsuccessfully tried twice to slip out of the bed to stand at the freezer and eat ice cream out of the carton last night. Both times, his wife intervened and he didn't get ice cream. OK, like that is ever going to happen to me! I could get up and fry chicken and Dennis wouldn't know it. The dogs would, but they would be delighted. Dogs don't care if you are fat.
But I care if I am fat, so I have to choose between the holiday food and the Svelte Angel. I will enjoy my Thanksgiving dinner, every bite, without guilt. Then no matter how many children are starving in China, I will put the leftovers in the trash, padlock the refrigerator and throw away the key. I promise, because I am worth it.

The Devil's Food Made Me Do It

I am struggling. I mean I am really struggling, with cravings and all of those awful you-big-fat-looser feelings I get when I am reminded exactly how much and for how long I have failed at this. This is painful stuff for me that I want to run screaming from the problem. I know a big part of this is physical, when I first settled into the lowered carbs in my system I lost the cravings, and when I lost the cravings I ate properly and felt great about myself. However, there have been some real Devils in my path the last couple of weeks and I was thinking a little sin wouldn't kill me.
I would like to believe that, actually, I mean this IS for the rest of my life. I would like to believe that occasionally I can have carbs and not find myself as I am now--up at 1:23 AM blogging about it. The Devil in disguise looked harmless enough: I have hosted two parties in three weeks at my house. For both parties, I had to prepare a carb-rich dish for what was a covered dish and after both parties, a great deal of carb-rich food was left at my house. Last blog, I bragged about how my potato salad was not calling to me, and how surprised I was! Well let me tell you, the Devil's Food brownie's that were left here at the last party know how to speak my name in four languages!
I avoided those brownies for 5 hours at the party, until my head kicked in. "Let's see, that is a one inch thick square--there can't be more than 50 calories and 20 carbs in it, and after all, a little sugar once in 7 weeks won't kill you and will keep you from craving it." That mental conversion to the dark side reminded me where the name "Devil's Food" must have come from. I explained it the same way to myself as I grazed by the next day and picked up two more. I keep asking myself "why in the world didn't I just throw them away?" I thought it was because I hate to waste food, *BUZZER* and that my kids and husband shouldn't have to not have them. *BUZZER*. If this were a game show, I would be going home. This is hard to say, but I must: "I wanted to keep them for me!!!" Truthfully, the calories probably didn't hurt me a bit, but the carbs lit a fuse that has had me white-knuckling these last couple of days. The white-knuckling alone won't kill me, but it starts the mental self hate-mongering. The combination of the three has the potential to do me in. Somebody in my head lied to me about that brownie. Intellectualizing and rationalizing doesn't work with a drug, and sugar is a drug that makes you crave more. Carbs cause cravings, simple and plain. Cravings cause failure, simple and plain. I wish it weren't true, but here I sit.
I woke up from a bad dream to write this. I was in one of my first houses, the house I lived in just before I bought my first house. There was a bad guy in the house and I was running from him and hiding from him, but I kept falling asleep. I was in the living room and was looking out of the door for the bad guy when I discovered someone in the room behind me. I turned, ready to fight, and was surprised to see my wonderful doctor standing there, explaining that he was not real and that I was OK. It doesn't take a genius to figure that one out.
My meals are planned and in the house for the rest of the week, and I am getting up this minute and throwing those evil brownies in the outside trash. The Angel is in the building.

Angel Aware

I am puzzled by something that delights me. As I go through my days, the old gun-shyness still rares its extremely ugly head as I watch TV, walk through the grocery store and watch for evil lurking behind baked goods or in the potato chip aisle. When a commercial comes on where melted chocolate is being poured over something even better, I normally recoil and quickly change the channel, in hopes of stifling a craving that eventually will need to be satisfied in something fattening. When these cravings were denied a long time, I must admit that I felt mistreated and, to be perfectly honest, felt sorry for myself because I am not the type that can EVER indulge. Eventually I gave in, ate the chocolate thing, and felt guilty. There is nothing cerebral about this process, I will assure you.
Since I have vowed to be brutally honest with myself, I need to admit something incredibly cool! I still am seeing the evil commercials, and early on I resorted to the decades-old habit of recoiling in fear of feeling those awful feelings which could end with a rendezvous with that chocolate thing and the ensuing guilt. I noticed recently that those commercials no longer have an emotional bang for me. In fact, I have pretty much been able to leave the remote control alone over the last week. This is new for me, and I am finding myself so much more at ease, and it is wonderful. However, one thing is REALLY new for me. Like everyone, I have trigger foods that I have trouble leaving alone. My husband is the same way, which is why I never keep baked goods in the house. (thank God for sugar free jello!) My trigger foods are different than his, starches like potato salad, broccoli and rice casserole, and baked potatoes. My early vow was to simply keep them out of the house, to embrace the idea that I have trouble leaving them alone and solve it by simply extracting them from my reach. Over the last two weekends, we have had guests for parties or for dinner on our new deck. I do not believe in forcing my dietary restrictions on guests, so I prepared the standard fare for a BBQ, which included my home-made potato salad. I put more effort into planning how to deal with the potato salad in the house than in cooking the potato salad! I was going to allow myself to have a small portion, and then send every bite of left-overs home with my guests. The next weekend, we were grilling steaks for our dinner guests, and my husband and I discussed how to be a good host while still staying within common sense for our eating plan. I googled carbs and calories in a baked potato and discovered that it would be OK to split a medium baked potato with my husband once in awhile. I also had problems not offering dessert to my guests, even though I needed to stay away. I decided to bake a frozen cobbler, and that I would allow myself a very small serving, after all, this is for the rest of my life and I am really working on relaxing into the process. This would be the only sugar that had crossed my lips in six weeks, and I thought that was reasonable as long as it was a little serving, and a one-time thing and I went right back to work the next day.
Here is the cool thing. I put the pre-planned amount of each of these trigger foods on my plate at these two parties, I ate a couple of bites and thought, I don't WANT this. This is bad for me and it is just not worth it. I just threw it away, just like that. I was shocked at how easy this was for me; this is new for me in this lifetime. I can't help but wonder what is going on that is just so different this time. While I am 100% engaged and determined, I feel more may be at play than just my ability to white-knuckle past dietary obstacles. Another noticeable difference is the total lack of emotion in this, no guilt, no feeling sorry for myself. It is though my intellect has at last entered the building after all of these years. What the heck?
Honestly, I think there are several "angels" at work in this. First, I honestly think I have some help from real angels--I am so determined and so easy in my mind. Second, I think the science angel is helping a lot. My bloodwork showed I had a high Insulin level. We all understand how powerful hormones are, and that they can impact emotion, thinking and behavior. Insulin is a hormone, capable of wielding enormous power over the human body. I have been eating a very small amount of carbs, and that drives down the Insulin. It is my understanding that carbs cause cravings, and that Metformin also lowers the Insulin, which also causes cravings. Whatever is happening, I am just grateful, grateful, grateful! Could it really be this easy? After 45 years of struggling with my weight, have I finally found a doctor who has found the source of the problem instead of just wanting to treat the symptoms with surgery? My own Mother died at age 62 due to complications from weight loss surgery--I can't help but wonder what would have happened if she had access to Metformin and this bit of knowledge about what caused her weight problem. That part hurts.
I can't help but credit my wonderful doctor. It costs a few hundred dollars for the bloodwork to test for the metabolic causes of obesity, plus occasional visits to re-check bloodwork. The first surgeon that did weight-loss surgery never even met me before he saw me just before checking out of the hospital post-surgery. The thousands I paid him for the few minutes he spent with me during surgery pale in comparison to what my current doctor is making curing me. When I was a teacher, I used to joke about the kids getting in the way of my job! Apparently, unfortunately, patients often get in the way of the medical community making money, too.
All I know is that I am different now, I feel different now. While I have some regret that a cure has been so incredibly slow coming, I am overwhelming grateful and hopeful that it may just be at hand.

It's All In My Head

The name of this blog, The Svelte Angel, refers to the angelic help from God, friends, family, my doctor, and myself to find the thinner, healthier side of me. It is also about the evolution of my mindset towards self-love and self-help, or awakening the svelte angel within me. If it is helpful for you to follow my progress as I evolve, mentally and physically, then I invite you to follow me.
I have a serious weight problem. Doctors, who love to label and depersonalize, have called me obese, and even one doctor said I had "gross morbid obesity." Gross and morbid, huh? :) I have spent a lifetime fighting my weight, and I do mean "fighting", and a lifetime of beating myself up emotionally. I have even had weight loss surgery twice--but nothing has worked so far. I say this not to elicit pity, far from it. It just is what it is, and I needed to state the facts.
Since some rather unfortunate experiences with a number of apathetic doctors and pitiful weight loss groups over the last 30 years, I came to believe I was so weight-loss resistant that I could not lose weight. I honestly believed that, and I have some pretty good evidence to back it up! But recently, when I visited a surgeon in Houston to discuss my THIRD weight loss surgery, he said something that really hit home to me. Because of what I had been told through the years, I honestly believed that in order to maintain my excessive weight, I would have to eat three pizzas a night, which I was not doing. My diet isn't bad, actually, in fact it is a lot better than a lot of people who are not large. This surgeon told me that a person does not get my size by eating three pizzas a night. He explained that people get my size by taking in an extra hundred calories a day over a very long time, and that as they get larger, their activity level goes down and they need fewer calories. A hundred calories?? Really?? One extra Coke a day, or one banana a day could have done this? That almost feels tragic to me--all of those years I just assumed I was powerless and could not stop this steamroller that has slowly taken over my life. I guess I could cry into my pillow and feel like a failure again, or I guess I could rejoice that I feel empowered for the first time in my life to fix this without surgery and throwing up. I choose to be thrilled.
I understand that I still have this weight-loss resistance problem, but now I know that doesn't mean I cannot lose weight! I am thrilled and relieved that I actually know I can lose weight now. I need a doctor that will believe me and not accuse me of sleepwalking and eating (true story), and who will test my blood for all of those things that make you hoard fat. I have never understood why doctors are so reluctant to do this. Doctors understand that people my size are generally pretty hopeless, and for some reason they never try to help. My sister rode next to a bariatric surgeon on an airplane once, and he told her that the only permanent solution was surgery. Even the surgeon in Houston told me I had a 95% chance of failure on my own--my, my, those doctors love their numbers, don't they? Fortunately, I have the best doctor in the world who, for the first time in my entire life believes me and wants to help me. Why do most doctors just send the obese to surgeons instead of treating the underlying condition, anyway?
My doc drew 8 test-tubes of blood from me to see if he could help me, and I just got the results this week. He tested my Insulin, hormones, lipids, certain vitamin levels and Thyroid. While we were waiting on the results, he put me on a low carb, restricted calorie diet--about 1200 calories a day. He explained that for the Insulin resistant (which he had a gut feeling I was), that we don't metabolize carbs effectively, and it gets stored as that awful "fluffinees" that has kept me out of swimwear for years! My initial reaction to the diet reflected all of the beliefs and angst of my past--I started out on an insane 800 calories a day. I was terrified that I would not lose weight again unless I literally starved and ran 5 miles a day! I couldn't see it then, but my head was getting in the way. I had nightmares about failure and was so afraid--this is one of those areas that make me feel awful about myself. After a week, I decided that I just could not maintain 800 calories a day--I was miserable. Then something clicked in my head, or maybe one of my angels talked to me. Whatever it was, I suddenly became clear that I needed to relax into this and go easy. Whatever I do, I have to live with this for a long time, actually for the rest of my life. I decided to bump up my calories to 1200 calories a day and just see what happened.
The first time I weighed, I had lost 8 pounds over two weeks. I attributed that mostly to that awful week on 800 calories. Normally, when I try to diet, I can barely keep myself away from the scale because I am always wanting to take its temp and see how the diet is going. Usually I see weight loss, then plateau, then I assume my weight loss resistance has kicked in and I think it is useless and give up. This time, I decided to stay away from the scale--again, to relax. I didn't weigh for another four weeks when I returned to the doctor's office for the results of the blood work. While I had been a really good girl, I was completely prepared for poor results, I mean I was not starving, and I could not have lost weight. I was prepared mentally to re-examine, to add this or take away that, and most of all, to keep going. I was in tears the morning of the doctor's visit, anticipating the disappointment that had plagued me for my entire life. What I was definitely NOT prepared for was success. I LOST SIXTEEN POUNDS in four weeks, for a total of 24 pounds! I sincerely had no idea! The nurse told me that "he wished he had a camera to take a picture of my face, because my jaw was on my chest". OK, so you mean I CAN lose weight without it hurting, without severe exercise? I can lose weight without the doctor even prescribing meds for my metabolism? This may sound nuts to someone who has not taken my path, and who has not been subjected to awful doctors and crazies in weight-loss groups, and who has had weight loss surgery twice. I sincerely didn't know I could lose weight.
While I was texting my husband about the 16 pounds, the doctor came in. He told me that my blood work showed that I had a high insulin level, and that my vitamin D was really low. My blood sugar was fine, lipids were fine, everything else was fine, except for a couple of hormonal things that he said he was going to keep for later, to use if I stalled. He put me on a very low dose of Metformin, normally given to diabetics, but more and more given to people with Insulin resistance for weight loss. He also put me on 3000 IU of Vitamin D. When I googled vitamin D deficiency later, I found a number of articles about it being associated with obesity and how early research is showing people who are not deficient in Vitamin D lose more weight than others. My research said that you normally get Vitamin D from the sun and certain foods, especially cold water fish (which I really don't eat very often). The article said that you ultimately would expose 40% of your skin to the sun for 30 minutes every day (no sunscreen) to get the right amount of Vitamin D. This is also the source of the "winter depression" of people who live in the gloomy, sunless winters of the NW--a lack of Vitamin D also causes depression. Hmmm, I also can definitely do depression sometimes, too. I had to laugh over the 40% of skin thing--I haven't exposed 40% of my skin outside since I was 7 years old, and whatever skin I expose today has a generous coat of sunscreen on it now! Now I guess I have to choose between thin and wrinkles. Thins wins, no doubt about it!
My doctor also put me on a regular dose of fiber supplements (pills) to "move things along" so I absorb fewer calories, and help me feel full, and B12. All three supplements are over-the-counter.
The doctor told me to eat no carbs before lunch, to add a few carbs at lunch, and eat a snack between lunch and dinner to keep my metabolism humming. I usually eat bacon and eggs for breakfast (two eggs has 140 calories, each strip of bacon has 47 calories) and no carbs, something like tuna salad with high fiber crackers, or pieces of cheese or lunch meat with crackers (I like crackers!) or sometimes a salad from Subway. In the evening we generally grill something with a vegetable, or other lower carb meals. I am trying to add Salmon and Tuna for a bunch of reasons, but partly because it has vitamin D in it. I am not hungry, and I am not craving. The hard part is just that I am so busy and I have to plan my meals. Every evening, I think through all three meals the next day, so I know what I am eating and where it will come from. Where I get in trouble is if I get busy, get hungry, and don't have the right food to eat on hand. One day like that, I googled the carbs and calories of a fish sandwich at McDonald's, found it to be barely legal, and ran over and grabbed one without cheese (90 calories less). I was starving in 2 hours and was sick to my stomach too! That was an important lesson for me. Planning what I eat involved releasing another very old bad mindset. Years ago, a weight-loss group deeply engrained into my thinking that I should avoid thinking about food, ever. I now realize how ridicules that is; people SHOULD thoughtfully plan their meals, especially if they have a weight problem!
I am amazed at what is happening. The challenge for me is not giving up, but going at it too hard. In other words, to relax into what has to become the rest of my life. I would imagine the 5% of people who solve this problem are the people who can do this, if these statistics are true.
The reason I am doing this blog is selfish, I need to work through some stuff in a head that has been brainwashed for a long time. This blog takes some courage on my part, to expose my really soft underbelly, however I honestly believe that I can't grow unless I expose the secrets and therefore release their power over me. I also wanted to see if there are any more svelte angels out there--we all need support and encouragement. However, if anyone reads this and finds something that helps, that is just great!

I Am NOT A Number

I have been thinking a lot lately about why the whole weigh-in process seems to be so scarey for me. The whole world just loves to define us by the numbers. Any mathematical formula that measures one human being against another is suspect to me. Probably the one thing that makes me most anxious surrounds the set of numbers that define my body. Doctors are the absolute worst when it comes to numbers, probably because they are scientists and naturally drawn to measurement. They just LOVE numbers! Your health itself is measured in numbers: cholesterol, triglycerides, blood pressure, temperature, oxygen saturation, lab results and of course, your weight. I have always hated being weighed, so much so that I worry for days if I think that someone will weigh me. If I haven't weighed in awhile, I am afraid to see my weight. It is as though knowing the number will change me, cause me pain and the self-disgust that creeps into my mind because of my weight has the potential to destroy my happiness. I have a real problem with telling someone, anyone, what I weigh. I have the most dear husband in the world, but even though I know down to my toes (all 10) that he would not care, I just can't allow him to know my weight. When we go to the doctor, I ask them to never say my weight out loud in front of him. This is about how I feel about ME, not him. I told a trusted friend about this once, and how awful it was that my doctor always weighed me every time I came in. (and while I am on the subject, why in the heck do doctors keep the scale in the hall where anyone can see?) My friend told me to tell them that they don't need to weigh me every time I came in and then refuse to be weighed. Eureka!! I did this for years, refusing to let the doctor weigh me unless he had a real need for it--I even once would not tell an ER nurse what I weighed when she asked me before my prescriptions were written. She began to guess hideous numbers, so I finally confessed to her, and GUESS WHAT? When I picked up my prescription at my pharmacy, my weight was printed right on the label!
So I began to think a lot recently about why these numbers get me so worked up. I think it really started back in elementary school, when I was a chubby little girl. Back in those days, the school nurse would periodically visit each classroom and weigh and measure the children. For some reason, the nurse would roll the scale right into the classroom, at the front of the class and weigh us before our class, something that seems ridicules today. I remember how afraid I was, and how I would almost be sick by the time they got to the S's in the alphabet and called out my name. The nurse would weigh the child and call their weight out loud to the teacher, who would write it down. I remember when I was called to the scale (or any other chubby child), the boys shushed the class and the erupted in laughter as my weight was called out. The teacher would simply say "quieten down, class". It was insane. I honestly think that this is where my hatred of that number comes from. I mean, I am fine, but subtle feelings like this need to be acknowledged if I want to change this.
The entire point of this blog is for me to find whatever innate wisdom is within me, or whatever wisdom I can pick up on the way from angels (human and otherwise) that I stumble upon and use it to solve my life-long battle with weight for the last time. I have decided that I will no longer make numbers an issue for me to do battle with. During earlier battles with my weight, I was obsessed with numbers, I clung to numbers. I would weigh myself at least every few days, and some days I was so distressed that the numbers didn't reflect what I thought I deserved. I would alter what I was doing based on those numbers, and then check it again. This was very stressful to me, and I am sure that it was not helpful. I am in this for the long run--for life. I am through playing games, I am not going to mess around with what I need to do to lose this weight. I am going to do what I need to do, period--right now I don't feel like I need to be held accountable by a scale. However, I know I absolutely have to remove that awful feeling from this process if I want to live with this permanently, FOREVER. I intend to change these feelings. Someday, if I feel like it, I might rent a billboard and put my weight on it. (probably not!) My point is, I am not there yet. I am not needing to meet the scale daily to be accountable right now, my determination is far too deep now. So I have decided to weigh in no more than once every two weeks. I will be far less likely to see all of those minute plateaus that are so hard to deal with. I will simply keep doing what I am doing as the plateaus quietly resolve themselves without me even knowing. I can deal with that. And so far, there have been really nice numbers--especially since I waited a month this time to weigh. Down 16 more pounds yesterday since the last weigh-in! It felt just great.