I struggle with eating issues.
Food issues.
Eating disorders.
I could sugar coat it, pretend I don't struggle, gloss over it like it is all no big deal that I am 32 and still cannot get a handle on things. But, I won't. Not any more, at least.
Because I am trying to fix some bad, bad habits that I've been holding onto since high school. Because I am trying to find other ways to manage my anxiety. Because I want to get my body to look nice in a way that is sustainable and not in a way that will destroy my bones and my teeth. Because I want my boys to learn to be kind to their bodies.
When I finally stepped on the scale after having Anderson (at 4 or 5 weeks postpartum), and I saw 220, I about died. 220 pounds. I cried. Two and a half years (give or take) of being pregnant or nursing, using the pregnancy as an excuse to not eat well and nursing as an excuse to eat extra had caught up with me. Two hundred and twenty pounds.
Overwhelming.
Suddenly I was aware that I was the obese lady on the late night infomercial with fifty or more pounds to lose.
Two hundred and twenty pounds.
Without thinking, I went into planning mode: water and gum and coffee. Creamer every other day. Vitamins. Purge any and everything else. Ready, set, go...
Except.
I am responsible for feeding a baby. I can't do that. I can't even, really, restrict my calorie intake too severely. Not enough calories=not enough milk.
So, then what?
Two hundred and twenty pounds, and I hated how I looked. How nothing but maternity clothes fit. Hated my body with no idea how to change because everything I knew to fall back on to drop the weight was absolutely off limits for as long as I nursed Anderson.
I decided to try something new and hit the gym 3-5 times a week. Get some kid-free time (the YMCA child watch ladies are gems). Sweat. Learn how to use weight machines. Find the tiny, mirrored room of free weights that no one ever uses and perfect my squats and lunges. Get blisters and callouses. Get sore. Feel so much better.
I also decided to scrap the word "diet" and try just eating better. More water. I subscribed to a farm box. Lovely, fresh, organic fruits and vegetables delivered weekly. I started cooking more fish and less red meat, incorporating whole grains, keeping less junk stashed in the pantry. Less going out or picking up fast food. Being aware of what and how much I ate by keeping a food diary but not stressing if frozen yogurt happened to be an entry. I started thinking about what I ate instead of not caring about what I ate because I was just going to throw it up anyway.
I started this seven weeks ago. I started all of this knowing I would have to have patience. I set non-weight related goals like: "keep track of all the food I eat this week", "35 hard minutes on the elliptical," or, "no after dinner snacking" because I knew losing weight the right way takes time.
I have been consistent. I have worked hard.
So when I stepped on the scale yesterday and saw 220 register, I wanted to scream. And with that scream came the temptation of old habits.
It was hard to ignore.
And today, when the old lady in the store asked me, as I held my three-month-old IN MY ARMS, when I was due, I wanted to cry. I did cry. The whole way home. And with those tears comes self criticism. And ugly feelings of failure. And feeling out of control. And the old habits, the ones that I know can get me 50 pounds lighter a lot quicker than I am getting there with the new habits, the ones that make me feel better by quieting anxiety, become so tempting.
This is a struggle.
It is frustration.
So this,writing then hitting the "publish" button when I am done, is to hopefully lessen some of the struggle. Get it out of my head. Where some one can see it. And maybe not ask me when I am due. Or how I plan on losing the weight.
Or maybe, really, it is so there is no judgement about my 220 pounds because I am trying to lose it.
The right way.
Without being hungry and grouchy and hiding my tooth-scraped knuckles. Without being irresponsible as a parent. By trying to instill some new ways of doing things that are not completely ridiculous.
I am trying.
I am.
Food issues.
Eating disorders.
I could sugar coat it, pretend I don't struggle, gloss over it like it is all no big deal that I am 32 and still cannot get a handle on things. But, I won't. Not any more, at least.
Because I am trying to fix some bad, bad habits that I've been holding onto since high school. Because I am trying to find other ways to manage my anxiety. Because I want to get my body to look nice in a way that is sustainable and not in a way that will destroy my bones and my teeth. Because I want my boys to learn to be kind to their bodies.
When I finally stepped on the scale after having Anderson (at 4 or 5 weeks postpartum), and I saw 220, I about died. 220 pounds. I cried. Two and a half years (give or take) of being pregnant or nursing, using the pregnancy as an excuse to not eat well and nursing as an excuse to eat extra had caught up with me. Two hundred and twenty pounds.
Overwhelming.
Suddenly I was aware that I was the obese lady on the late night infomercial with fifty or more pounds to lose.
Two hundred and twenty pounds.
Without thinking, I went into planning mode: water and gum and coffee. Creamer every other day. Vitamins. Purge any and everything else. Ready, set, go...
Except.
I am responsible for feeding a baby. I can't do that. I can't even, really, restrict my calorie intake too severely. Not enough calories=not enough milk.
So, then what?
Two hundred and twenty pounds, and I hated how I looked. How nothing but maternity clothes fit. Hated my body with no idea how to change because everything I knew to fall back on to drop the weight was absolutely off limits for as long as I nursed Anderson.
I decided to try something new and hit the gym 3-5 times a week. Get some kid-free time (the YMCA child watch ladies are gems). Sweat. Learn how to use weight machines. Find the tiny, mirrored room of free weights that no one ever uses and perfect my squats and lunges. Get blisters and callouses. Get sore. Feel so much better.
I also decided to scrap the word "diet" and try just eating better. More water. I subscribed to a farm box. Lovely, fresh, organic fruits and vegetables delivered weekly. I started cooking more fish and less red meat, incorporating whole grains, keeping less junk stashed in the pantry. Less going out or picking up fast food. Being aware of what and how much I ate by keeping a food diary but not stressing if frozen yogurt happened to be an entry. I started thinking about what I ate instead of not caring about what I ate because I was just going to throw it up anyway.
I started this seven weeks ago. I started all of this knowing I would have to have patience. I set non-weight related goals like: "keep track of all the food I eat this week", "35 hard minutes on the elliptical," or, "no after dinner snacking" because I knew losing weight the right way takes time.
I have been consistent. I have worked hard.
So when I stepped on the scale yesterday and saw 220 register, I wanted to scream. And with that scream came the temptation of old habits.
It was hard to ignore.
And today, when the old lady in the store asked me, as I held my three-month-old IN MY ARMS, when I was due, I wanted to cry. I did cry. The whole way home. And with those tears comes self criticism. And ugly feelings of failure. And feeling out of control. And the old habits, the ones that I know can get me 50 pounds lighter a lot quicker than I am getting there with the new habits, the ones that make me feel better by quieting anxiety, become so tempting.
This is a struggle.
It is frustration.
So this,writing then hitting the "publish" button when I am done, is to hopefully lessen some of the struggle. Get it out of my head. Where some one can see it. And maybe not ask me when I am due. Or how I plan on losing the weight.
Or maybe, really, it is so there is no judgement about my 220 pounds because I am trying to lose it.
The right way.
Without being hungry and grouchy and hiding my tooth-scraped knuckles. Without being irresponsible as a parent. By trying to instill some new ways of doing things that are not completely ridiculous.
I am trying.
I am.
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