Unlike yesterday's visitors to my pool (above) I'm feeling a bit stuck in the mud today. Do you get that? It is absolutely a beautiful day, and I'm feeling like I should be doing something, God knows there's enough around here to do, and yet I don't really want to do anything. I feel stuck. But maybe, just maybe, my psyche is saying: do absolutely nothing. The weather is great, I can smell BF/neighbour's lilacs through the open window, I iced my sore foot (a bit of fascia irritation, I think) by sticking it in the still frigid pool and it feels much better. I can just write, I can just be here. I'm hoping the ducks will return, but if they don't, oh well, probably best for the pool chemistry...
I weighed myself this morning, and my weight is stable, and I feel physically pretty good, sore foot notwithstanding. It's been almost 4 months since my surgery, and I feel nothing spectaular, just generally well. It seems like my biggest activity lately is being a --- jock??? I was afraid I was becoming a compulsive exerciser, but I'm not overdoing it, I took 2 days off last week from it because of the holiday, and I'm just enjoying being fit, my body moves, I can exercise and get winded, but I'm ok, I'm not going to die. I bought a new pair of swim goggles with some optical correction, and I can see in the pool! And, they don't leak!!! Ok, ok, so I was limping along for way too long with old swim goggles. And speaking of limping, I think my foot is sore because I went too long with my old running shoes. It's so hard for me to listen to my body, it has to hurt for me to pay attention. When my foot started hurting, I discovered that my hamstrings were way too tight, probably exacerbating my foot, and that stiff back I thought was just another middle age symptom? Hamstrings again. Some regular stretching is really loosening things up.
Self care is tough. I got an OA phone call from a member who is struggling not just with food but with taking care of herself, and we just talked about our challenges. Shame, caregiving for others when we're really hurting ourselves, and did I mention shame? Biggest aspect of our disease. I didn't try to cure her. I just listened and shared. And tried to keep listening to myself along the way. Oops, time to ice again! And I thought I was doing nothing!!!
Social eating has to be the bane of most people who struggle with their weight. Mind you, I'm no stranger to sneak eating either --- it was one of my favorite binge methods, being able to eat continually while nobody was watching me. But I still struggle with social eating. Last night we were at a charity benefit for women in Afghanistan and I knew some good food was going to be served, so I went light on supper, just a poached egg on some braised cabbage (omigod, you gotta try the braised cabbage....go to Orangette's blog to get this fabulous recipe. Perfect accompaniment if you're already roasting something in the oven, and I cut down on the oil by almost half and it was still unctuously tasty. Go ahead, roast the whole head. The leftovers are even better!) so I could still sample the Afghan treats. But peril lies in the buffet table, because in large groups, I get very anxious. Honestly, I get anxious in small groups too. In fact, any group over 3. I just start eating to calm my nerves. The food goes in, and then faster, and faster... So I've got to watch it.
Last night was an interesting challenge. A number of fellow OA members were singing in the choir that entertained us. So there was my reality check--- they were there to ground me. But also in the choir was a surprise for me: an old friend that I had been very close to around fifteen years ago and then had broken away from because, well, she was emotionally and mentally ill and so was I. I felt like we were both going under, and I did what I do when I feel out of my depth, I disappeared. It's a recurring pattern for me. We hadn't talked for years. Well, my friend resurfaced and she wants to try to pick us up again. She looks really well. But I'm scared. I'm not sure I can handle this. More importantly, do I want to handle this again? Can we be friends in a way that is not co-dependent?
In the context of this blog, this is an important question, because I've learned that the more I stuff down my feelings and needs when I'm with others, I just need that balm of food all the more. It's like my security blanket. A security blanket with a bomb hidden underneath!
I can't figure it.
I just posted saying I needed to be honest about my weight and needing a larger size and then I bought a pair of size 8 denim capris because they just looked "right" sized when I held them up to me. I was at Costco and one of their "charms" is they don't have dressing rooms. If it doesn't fit you have to return it. But it did. I did try on a light jacket in a Small and it fit too. Maybe Costco sizes are, like everything else about the store, oversized, and/or I've gained muscle which weighs more than fat per inch size. After all, BF weighs about the same as me, but hates to exercise so she's a few sizes bigger than me.
Whatever. Obviously I have no clue.
I need to be honest here. I have to change my profile because I have gained weight. I can blame the surgery in February, or whatever, but the last couple of months when I've weighed myself I've been closer to 160 than 150. I'm mildly concerned. I'm aware that after my surgery I indulged in a few too many pizzas while not getting a lot of exercise. And maybe I've been letting the treat fairy visit too often?
And I had a couple of no-shit binges. One in January, and one in early March. So, my size 8 jeans are getting a little too tight, and I actually had to buy a 10 in the last pair.
I don't feel bad, but I'm concerned that this could be a slippery slope, and I wish my jeans fit better. So, I need to take some action. Get back into programme a little more. I already mentioned an extra meeting a week would be good. More journalling to keep track of how I feel from day to day. Cleave to what has helped me in the past, shake off the belief that I was safe, that I wasn't going back "there". Well, if my body's inclination is to return to a higher weight, I have to be vigilant. Sucks kinda, but it's really just a reality check. I have work to do.
Yikes, it's noon, lunch! Snuck up on me. Guess blogging may help too.
I've been reading exerpts of Gina Kolata's new book Rethinking Thin on the nytimes.com website, and it's a scary read. Because it reinforces that idea that losing and keeping off a substantial amount of weight is tough. Really tough. She maintains that studies indicate that my trying to stay at a healthy weight feels akin to starving, according to my body. And that does feel right. Another thing that feels accurate is this:
"There were a very few who did not get fat again, but they made staying thin their life’s work, becoming Weight Watchers lecturers, for example, and, always, counting calories and maintaining themselves in a permanent state of starvation."
I don't like the terms starving or starvation, because it feels like entirely too dire a term to describe how I feel about 80% of the time, but yes, there are times, like last night, when I was dying for a bag of chips and it did feel a bit like I was starving. Although I had other, less calorie- dense and more filling snacks, my body was sending me messages like, "aw come on, gimme a break, can't we have something fun to eat, just this once?!" I was having nostalgic flashbacks of the days when Fuzz and I would mow our way through a large bag of chips on the couch in front of the tv. But when I actually thought about it, I remembered that only three days previous I was at a cocktail TGIF with BF and other girl friends, and I had had lots of rich salty treats: crackers, cheese, pate, dip, crusty bread... I'd had my treats, and it was too soon for another exception.
Actually, I've just realized that my body is still playing tricks on my memory. I forgot that I've got a disease, and it's perfectly reasonable for that disease to include a body memory that wants me to be binge eating. And from hard experience I've found that anything less than the calories that keep me above 300 pounds (or maybe higher, if I hadn't stopped in time) feels like starvation --- AT TIMES. I find that those strong cravings that feel so compelling often leave when I've decided it's not getting filled and distract myself with another activity and my mouth with a cup of tea.
I don't count calories by the way, but I do have a fairly unchanging plan of eating, which includes regularly weighing and measuring foods I'm worried I'll eat too much of. And I'm having to relearn my life ---- emotionally, I feel I'm about 4 years old. I'm not a WW lecturer, but at times OA has been just as big a part of my life, I have spoken at many meetings, and I think that I actually need to increase the amount of time I spend on OA, maybe attending a 3rd meeting a week and doing more outreach work to my friends in the programme. Because I'm stuck with me, and I gotta work it if I want to keep where I am. And if that means relearning how to be in the world, well, right now I feel like I'm up for the fight. Ahrrr ahrrrrr, grrr.... ok, put up yer dukes!
While out shoppping with a friend yesterday I ran into an acquaintance. She was a Starbucks buddy, one of those people I would see regularly when I stopped for coffee and she or I would be parked in one of the few comfy chairs left in the store these days. She has a bright and "out there" personality to match her over-the-top raspberry hair and hip glasses, and she isn't the type of person that goes unnoticed.
I hadn't seen her for a long time, and honestly, I had forgotten that she had briefly attended OA, at least partly due to me spouting off about how it has helped me. Interestingly, I had forgotten she had expressed a desire to lose weight. She's tall, and I never thought she had that much to lose, but then from my frame of reference, anyone who wants to lose less than say, 80 pounds isn't all that fat in my eyes. Like many people, she didn't come back after a meeting or two. I hadn't seen her since then and self-absorbed kid that I am, hadn't thought about her recently. I had forgotten how desperate she was to change her life, and her health, and how out of control she felt.
Anyway, out of the blue she tells me she's scheduled to have gastric bypass surgery, roux en y, (because our government health plan will cover it, I believe, rather than the less drastic lap-band procedure) in New York later this month. I was shocked. I don't consider her the usual candidate for this operation, primarily because she doesn't appear to be morbidly obese. I know, it's none of my business, but it makes me sad that this dynamic woman struggling with her weight and depression decided this was her only alternative.
Was there more I could have done to help? Damn it, I don't know. Perhaps I have to be more aggressive in reaching out to newcomers. I do tend to retreat into my own shell o' shame. On the other hand, I have had episodes where I've tried to save people from themselves (I believe they call it co-dependency...) and it's gone badly. I do know that there but for the grace of God go I, and who knows? I could be in the same position some day if I gained back enough weight to make me that desperate. I know that the longer I stay thin the more the odds are in my favour, but face it, I know I've been battling long odds in this war.
I hope the suregeons know what they are doing and she gets good post operative care and counselling. I hope she doesn't have bad side effects now or in the long term. Above all, I hope she's happier. The woman I saw yesterday seemed sad and quite desperate, but very determined, but then she's a determined personality. I hope it serves her in good health to come.
Just ordered her from Totally Scooters in Toronto! Yes, she looks suspiciously like a Vespa but half the price (come on, we're talking scooters here, not Ducatis!), and I really dig that color, which is actually rather close to my hair color, I think. Somebody asked me if I had a name for her, but I don't yet. Naranja?
Of course, I'm not vain or anything... but I was madly scanning the web for accessories, wanting to be the perfect scooter girl. But then it hit me. I was sittting in a 12 step meeting having just whipped there on my bike, and I realized that what I was wearing on my bike would be just fine on a scooter. It's not as if I'm cruising the highway on a big beefy cruiser, I will be just scooting around town! I already own three old leather jackets and some sturdy boots, and I even have my old motorcycle gauntlets kicking around from when I owned my Kawasaki 440 ----gulp--- 25 years ago. Oh my lord, it actually has been a quarter century since "diverted" a year's tuition into buying a bike, completely without telling my parents (I always was a sneaky rebel). I kept the helmet but I need a new one, definitely, but the gauntlets have come in handy when it was time to prune those extra thorny old fashioned roses.
A friend of mine finished a reading on handling stress the other day with the saying "Some days you're the pigeon, other days you're the statue..."
I still cannot believe the way my brain works. I started today with the best of intentions for dinner this evening. I would make some tasty and fairly quick curries (chickpea with spinach and butter chicken, with most of the seasonings coming from jars of Pataks...) for an impromptu potluck with the family of best friend/next door neighbour and the family of her partner's best friend. Got that? Sort of a chosen family dinner. But it quickly got complicated: suddenly, they were hauling cute as a button hors doeuvres out of freezers and putting them into ovens: escargots, brioche, fancy cheeses, shrimp with garlic butter, salmon pate... it was like being mugged by Ina Garten, aka the Barefoot Contessa, Friend of Martha, etc.... Mrs. Stewart, I blame you for this!
So a simple supper got way bigger than I wanted. Food, food, more rich food. Stir in a soupcon of my ever present social anxiety because I don't know the other family all that well, and my hunger rises up to roar "moooooooorrrrrre!" The one thing we didn't make was dessert. Well, the grownups other than me were drinking wine. And we made coffee. But I realized that my insides really were expecting, nay, demanding a rich fancy dessert to go with the rich fancy dinner. Never mind that I probably ate enough extra calories just in butter between starters and main course for an extra meal! That gaping hole in my psyche was demanding more.
I ate a couple of marshmallows that the kids were eating, and had some of my usual dark chocolate and three silky Iranian dates with tea after we went home. Which was fine. Again, the episode was another reminder that my stomach does not work like that of others. So what else is new, huh? Once again, I feel like the statue, but I'm not quite as surprised finding myself in that position as I used to be. It's my reality, and while that craving is pretty darn irritating, after a while it lessens, kind of like a mosquito bite. Like a bite, I know that if I scratch it, it will only become more inflamed. I acknowledge I'm having an adverse food reaction and try to live well anyway.
BF's father, a recovering alcoholic, told her that for him, the first drink is always the easiest one to turn down. When I have those keep-eating cravings, I have to remember that stopping will not be easier after the next bite, but now, before the next bite happens.
Ok, so I'm going for a run. It's a beautiful Sunday morning, Fuzz is out of town, and I phone my running buddy to try and bludgeon her into running with me. She can't. Or she won't. What I suspect, no, what my stubborn brain believes in every inch of it's little codependent soul, is that she is too busy doing for others to do for herself. Running with me today might mean she wouldn't be so damn exhausted when we meet again on Tuesday for our engraved in stone running date. I am totally convinced she is self sabotaging. And I resent her for it.
Well, ya know, what my brain is doing to me is just as bad if not worse than what I imagine she is doing to herself. Here I am over in her yard, perceiving that she has more and uglier crabgrass than in my yard. And what do I really know about her, anyway? She may indeed have better things to do than heavy breathing with me. I get so pissed off and exhausted by the rage generated by my mental gymnastics, no wonder that most evenings it seems that the only answer to all this misery is collapsing on the couch under an afghan armed with a bag of Miss Vickies and back to back episodes of House, another real sane example for me!
Truth be told, I wish I had the company to run. But if I really really wanted her company, I could wait until this evening. But I want to run now when it's cool and fresh and then have the slightly achy but oh-so-superior feeling for the rest of the day when it's done and can happily collapse at a local Starbuck's patio with my 2nd iced americano of the season. But I ain't going nowhere unless I get myself out of my friends back yard and just mind my own business. I ain't the boss of her, and when I really truly learn that, maybe I'll feel better.
What a beautiful day! Sun! Finally, it's stopped snowing and the dregs of that late few inches we had Monday have disappeared. I walked downtown with a light jacket for my final post-op check with the plastic surgeon who did my panniuclectomy. This guy does not have the greatest bedside manner, perhaps he has a touch of asperger spectrum disorder because you get the feeling he's talking to himself and you just happen to be in the room too.... It's a bit like having Eeyore for a doctor. He looks at my incision scar and said, ehhh, not bad, a little puckery here and there, a little uneven here...and I realized he wasn't critiquing me, but his handiwork! Then he told me that he could fix the unevenness in the scar in office with a local, but my tummy wouldn't be completely flat unless--- and then he grabs the skin on either side of my abdomen and pulls it back!--- we did a bigger operation with incisions that basically go almost all the way around my trunk!
No thanks. I'm quite happy with what's happened to my tummy, it's flatter than on most women my age, and the scar will fade, even on my white white rehead's skin. And the only one who sees the scar line is Fuzz or maybe the other chicks in the locker room at the Y. Geez Louise, I'm going on 46 this year and I'm very happy that I'm not 300 pounds any more. I'm not going for a bikini tummy, I feel rich having a whole rack of size 8 0ne pieces or tankinis to choose from. I'm just happy to have the flap gone along with the constant rash. Another benefit was a numb area of skin that never recovered from my hysterectomy was removed, and sensation in the new "landscape"seems to be pretty good. And I look pretty damn good in a pair of jeans!
That being said, I'm feeling strangely down. Is it the after effects of dealing with Dr. Eeyore? A feeling that life should feel more perfect than it is? Tax season? Studio anxiety? Just a bad case of life? What do I do? Maybe go to the studio any way. I've got over 3 hours before I meet my running group, I guess I could give it a go. I'm getting sick of the painting (a copy, just to get my chops up again) I'm working on so I should keep going on that, finish it up and get on with work that actually means something to me.
Sometimes ya just gotta keep going, even if it feels sucky. Oh yeah, I have to call my shrink...
Bless Oprah. A few days after I was complaining that the Appetite Awareness Workbook author didn't seem to understand my binge eating, I turned on Miz O (during lunch, of course) and she was having one of her semi-regular programs about addiction. After another one of the heartbreaking stories of one of her guests whose drug habit won out over their family, Oprah commented that the guest was obviously not stupid, to which the guest replied that intelligence didn't have any relevance to her cravings for the drugs--- they were beyond intelligence, beyond logic.
And then I had another one of those lightbulb moments when I thought, yup, that's how it is with me and food: my three university degrees and all the learning about nutrition, exercise and mental health got me close to nowhere. My cravings are not assuaged by my knowing that they aren't related to actual physical hunger. Fat people are not stupid! Knowing that the gnawing desire for cookies in the evening soon after a good meal is emotional in origin knocks the craving down by about, oh, .5%.... I learned I was an emotional eater around 1975 when I first joined Weight Watchers. It didn't really help with the diet and weight rollercoaster I rode for the next 30 years.
It wasn't until I started using the addiction model to describe my pattern of eating that I actually got anywhere with changing it. In the beginning I had trouble describing myself as a compulsive overeater. Yeah, I'm an overeater, but compulsive? Sounds too much like a form of mental illness. But then I realized that my behaviour did seem compulsive: my reaction to almost any life event or feeling was to eat. Celebration? Eat. Mourn? Eat. Bored? Eat. Feeling creative but going into the studio and painting too scary? I could create an elaborate chocolate dessert, earn praise of family and friends, and then eat 4 helpings of it in one evening. Repeat ad infinitum all the way above 300 pounds...
Paradoxically, it wasn't until I admitted that my eating issues seemed to be best described by using the model of an uncontrollable disease, was I able to get some help for them.
I bought a new book the other day. Sometimes I think I need a twelve step programme for those addicted to self-help books, and I'm having particularly severe buyer's remorse about this one. It's called the Appetite Awareness Workbook and I'm steamed, because after 4 chapters of this I'm gettting that creepy feeling that the author doesn't know what, or rather, who she is writing about, despite the claim touted on the cover that it has been clinically proven... on what? Rats eating junk food? Nah. Actually, the author does have some experience at an eating disorders facility in Colorado. However, for a book aimed at people with binge eating disorder (which I think I am), it is striking a rather hollow note with me. Hollow. That's how my stomach always feels...
The homework in this early stage of the book is to write down after every meal and snack how hungry you were and if you stopped when you were full. Well, it's been two days and, naturally for someone with an eating disorder, I have absolutely no clue when I'm "really" hungry. Other than, well, duh, I'm always hungry! The only time I know for sure when I am authentically hungry is when I'm really past a mealtime and I'm so ravenous I get nervous and cranky. I tried to "feel" my hunger before I started my oatmeal this morning. Nothing. No rumbling, no discomfort. I even, as suggested, and feeling like a dork, placed my hand on my tummy (you remember, the part that's still numb from surgery... making it feel like even more of a futile gesture) and thought... does this abdomen feel empty? No response. Not even a teensy growl. But I polished off my usual hearty portion.
The other question is, did I stop eating when I was moderately full. This one is also a real headshaker. The only way I know for sure I'm full, is of course when I'm really full, or stuffed. And that doesn't kick in easily. Maybe after a large bag of chips and a pint of ice cream, and a hamburger with gravy on the fries, but oh boy, there's chocolate...
For crissake, IF I COULD FEEL WHEN I WAS FULL, WOULD I BE BUYING this STUPID BOOK?!? So, I'm disconnected from my stomach feelings. I'm just not feeling too confident these people understand the nature of my beast. I'm feeling like some new species of animal just discovered by science, being observed in a lab by people with clipboards quizzing me in gibberish. I think this is a classic case of failure to communicate. I'll bet these "experts" even have cookies in their cupboard at home that go stale before they polish off the box! Mars and Venus, baby, Mars and Venus.
On the other hand, I went to my usual OA meeting on Saturday morning. Now they are talking my language. They know my disease, better than they want to, because their demon is my demon.
It's funny that as recently as a year ago I thought I was fine with my stomach. Let me clarify: that part of my stomach that, due to gaining and losing weight many times over 40 plus years, had lost most elasticity and hung like an apron over my pubic area. Doctors call it a pannus, but people with it commonly refer to it as their apron. I thought I would just live with it, but when I found out that I had to have a hernia repaired in that area, I also did some research with a plastic surgeon and discovered that because of the nearly constant rash and skin irritation I had under the pannus, our provincial health insurance would cover the surgery. If I wanted it.
Did I want it? Well, surprisingly, the answer wasn't initially "Hell, yes!" I really had resigned myself to living with it. I looked at my apron as one of my battle scars, along with the stretch marks, and flappy or saggy bits on other areas of my body that showed the war I had been through. I was not a twenty something twig, I was a middle aged woman who had lived and fought and kept going. But the rash was not going away and I would arguably not likely be in any better shape to recover from a surgery than now. And of course there was that part of me that wondered what it would be like to have a flat tummy. Why not enjoy it now? In fact, while I was waiting for word back about whether the province would cover the surgery, I decided that I would be willing to find the money to pay for it myself if they didn't. Better now than years from now when I could be old and weaker with and the rash compromising my health more.
Does it sound like I'm equivocating here, just justifying a vanity choice? Perhaps, but really there is no black and white answer to this. Vanity entered into it, but also my health was a concern. And, as the surgeon said, having the two procedures done at once is less risky than having than having another surgery later and another 6 weeks of recovery time. Drat, I hate grey! So much of life falls in that grey area. One of my big problems in life, dealing with those dratted greys.
So, it's been about 8 weeks since I had the surgery. Healing pretty well, but the scar is very long, like someone drew a rather uneven happy face from one hip bone to the other. It will fade. I got a brand new navel in the process, a teeny little cute one because the other one had sagged so low the surgeon removed it with the skin and gave me a new one, except I can't feel it. I'm still pretty numb all across my abdomen in that area, but sensation is coming back slowly. My gp, who herself has had a cesarian and hysterecomy cautioned me that some sensation could take a year to come back, and some may never. To which I responded, oh well, guess I can't cook in the nude any more! All together now: "EEEEEEEEUUUUUUUUU!!!"
Sometimes the area tingles, like when your foot is falling asleep. And the wierdest feeling, which I've only started experiencing this last week with the return of some sensation, is the one of "feeling" the missing pannus. It might be a little like phantom limb sydrome. Not painful, but occasionally it feels as if I still have the pannus. I'll roll over and bed and almost feel the skin that isn't there any more shifting.
As Count Floyd used to say "Spooky stuff, eh kids?" Wierd. But neat too.
Yup. I feel like crap. I've got this non-food related issue I'm not dealing with and I'm feeling like a total schmuck. Hopefully, I'll soon get so sick and tired of feeling, well, sick and tired over this that I'll do something about it. Right now, I'm living in this twilight limbo of hating myself. I say it's not food related, but really, when you're a compulsive overeater, emotional eater, whatever, it always relates back to food. I had some cravings last night for comfort food: saltines with peanut butter... you know, the stuff your mother would give you (or you wish she had) when you were feeling low.
Of course, in my family, at some point it felt as if my mother went from being my comforter to my jailer. I know she was only doing what she felt best, but I did feel as if she started monitoring my food. I remember when I was a kid, around 10 or 12, and they had bought some kind of canned chocolate milkshakes. It was Friday night, and I was watching TV with my parents, and I thought the milkshake tasted like heaven. My mother said I could have only one can that night. Well, I snuck out to the kitchen at some point, sat in the dark hallway outside the livingroom and watched tv through the door while drinking the second milkshake. If my mother knew what I was doing, she never gave any indication. I can't remember if I tried to hide the "evidence", the can, that time. That was for later years when I was in high school, at a "healthy" weight, dieting and bingeing in secret or with my friends who didn't care what I was eating. In most other respects, I was a pretty squeaky clean kid. Until I got a boyfriend and discovered the joy of making out at the ripe old age of 18, food was my big rebellion tool. Mind you, cigarettes and booze didn't have a big appeal because my father always sounded as if he was going to hack up a lung every morning, and my best friend and I both had to cope with alcoholic dads. Food was our comfort, our outlet, plus it was socially sanctioned. Except around my Mom.
So, last night, how did I deal with this? Well, I ate the snacks I usually eat in the evening, a fruit, some yogurt, decaf coffee and an ounce of 76% chocolate... ok, and a little extra: I split the 1/3 of an ounce left of the bar with Fuzz... and then I went to bed early , at 11 pm. Which is early for me. Safe in bed. Away from the fridge.
I was meeting with an OA sponsee yesterday, but I don't think we don't have the "classic" sponsor/sponsee relationship... whatever that is. Everybody does it differently, just like everybody works all aspects of their 12 step programme differently. In fact, one of the only universals in 12 step programmes that I've found is the belief that there is one right way to work the programme and we likely aren't the ones doing it "the right way"!
My sponsee has stuck with me through my recent relapses, just as I stayed with mine as she had hers. When you find someone whom you have so much in common with, you tend to stay with them even if they don't have "perfect" abstinence from compulsive overeating. I meet with my sponsee once a week and we just chat about stuff. Not all OA issues, but our lives. Actually, most life issues are OA issues. For those of us who call ourselves compulsive eaters (overeaters, undereaters, and those who eat too much and then purge or starve) we see that our eating is affected by our moods and coping mechanisms with those moods.
The depths we go to with this disease can be truly humiliating. A lot of sneakiness happens. When I was a child, I used to steal change from my mother's purse to buy candy. When house sitting for a family member, I plowed through tons of bread and cheese. A member who is a retired supermarket clerk talks about how she used to steal food and money from her till to buy food. Amazingly, she has actually had the courage to approach former employers to apologize and reimburse them for what she stole.
But with the exception of shoplifting, overeaters rarely are charged with serious crimes directly related to stealing for their food "habit", unlike alcoholics or drug addicts. Yesterday, my sponsee and I were practically rolling on the floor with the mental image the two of us wearing masks to hold up our favorite bakery. She'd go for the scones, I'd take the butter tarts. Thank god for large mercies.
My friend M offered to drag me to her Monday morning yoga class. I don't like yoga much, but I figured it was a better way to start the week than huddled in bed hating myself, so it was ok. Some good stretching, some opportunity to meditate a bit, and the woman instructing gave me this great lower leg massage while my legs were propped up in the air. Since we're all friends, we sat around and chatted over coffee afterwards. I don't think yoga will replace other forms of exercise, but there are much worse ways for me to spend time, like: worrying, watching useless tv, or eating. So, this week is turning out to be much nicer than last.
Fuzz is off school, on March break. He's really had his head buried in work (teaching and taking courses) since Christmas, so he needs some down time. We have no travel plans, but it's nice to have him around. We decided we would try to get out for a good long walk every day, but it's hard for me to fit that in even though I'm still off sick. I'm not even back to work yet, but there's always stuff to do. Today I meet with my OA sponsee, and then I'm going to babysit while Fuzz and my BF bottle a batch of wine they made.
Sometime this week I'm going to get back into the studio. It's been 4 1/2 weeks since my surgery --- a femoral hernia repair and a panniculectomy --- and the recovery has been fairly uneventful, but my mood has stunk. But it's generally been a difficult 6 months emotionally. Regular writing helps, but I think my old coping mechanism of stuffing the feelings down came back. One of the other artists in my studio building seems to have had some sort of breakdown. Part of me really feels sorry for him, but another part of me is hopping up and down and going "YES! Another artist is having problems!"
Since the black mood retreated last week I've been to 3 meetings of 3 different 12 step fellowships, OA and two others. Compulsive overeating is still the bugaboo that feels the most dangerous to me, but I have issues with alcohol and money, so I also go to the odd AA and Debtors Anonymous meeting, and since they are all from the same AA routes, they have the same message and the same techniques to try and live a healthier, saner life. Basically, they give me opportunities to reflect, share, and write about the problems bedevilling me. Trying to follow a 12 step way of life is about putting habits into place that make my life easier, not harder. But the change takes work and regular recommitment because I'm trying to change the self-sabotaging habits of a lifetime, some of which started before I even learned how to talk.
This week has been awful. And it's all been in my stewy brain. Nothing bad happened except I fell into the black pit on Monday and gave myself over completely to the binge rottweiller. I've been struggling with a big fear of dealing with some investments left to me by my mother years ago and because of some changes in them I have to deal with them this tax time.
Monday morning I felt incapable of dealing with these and I'm so horribly furious with myself for not dealing with this and feeling as if I mismanaged my money and all is horrible. I know it seems drastic. That's my drama diva brain. I abandoned all hope and retreated to bed except for regular trips to the refrigerator. There are 8 messages on my answering machine from friends that I couldn't bear to talk to. The fact I am writing right now means I have clawed myself back to the lip of the pit, and I'm sitting on the edge, swinging my legs over the abyss, contemplating the pit versus getting back into the world of the living again. I don't truly know if I clawed my way out or what happened last night when I popped out of the top.
I just know that last night in the wee hours (ok, it was after 4 am) I was lying in bed hating myself and that awful stuffed feeling in my stomach and suddenly I had this rush of gratitude. It seemed very profound then, but then, don't 4 am thoughts always feel profound? Profound Thought went something like this: "Here I am, in a cute little house that needs a little work, with a loving wonderful man, and I have good friends and some interesting things to do and two great cats and enough money. The only thing really wrong in my life is how much I hate myself. The rest of the stuff is minor. "
Click. Life seems worth living suddenly. Two things I am considering: Today I need to go to a meeting. Any 12 step meeting will do. Number two, I think I may benefit from some a residential treatment programme. I need to give this default self hatred switch a good scrub, and maybe look into turning it into a dimmer switch... It's so fucking drastic.
I believe that there are possibly many fat and happy people out there. I just know I was never one of them. My experiences with food have led me to believe that for every 50 pounds of excess weight most people carry, they have that much emotional pain that they are carrying around inside them. Or, on them, as it were. Some day we may have such sophisticated imaging equipment that we will be able to see the pain inside that inch of fat, and say, "oh, look, there on the left lateral abdomen, there is that incident from 1983 when your father slapped you and called you a lazy slut!"
Of course it's more complicated than that, because even when you dig down and see the suspected source of the pain, it doesn't mean you will immediately feel better. I believe then you have to try to counteract all the little distortions in thinking that followed that. Self knowledge then has to be followed by a massive change in mental habits of thinking, and behaviour. It's not enough for me to distract myself with a crossword puzzle when I feel hungry. I need to challenge the black dog of the soul and affirm that all is not lost, and I do not need comfort and oblivion in food.
I could become the fairy queen of the beautiful cupcake, but all the admiration of my fans will not help my pain. It's too hard wired. I cannot earn my own self love.
This may seem oblique to many, but if you've suffered from the black rottweiler of the binge, you'll probably understand.
Things happen. I sunk into a funk. The toxic thoughts got the best of me. I stopped going to OA meetings because even they seemed toxic to me. I got too deeply enmeshed with some people without even trying, but by being unable to say "no". Tried a new antidepressant which initially REALLY knocked the stuffing out of me. The depression itself didn't get worse, but I slept a LOT. And I had the cold that would never end, so I wasn't able to exercise much, which was the loss of a major mood elevator. But after a month I finally started to feel better.
The most amazing thing then happened: In early January I got back into the studio. Recovery sometimes is so subtle, you don't even notice it's happening, and in this case it was nothing dramatic. A couple of days after New Years', I got Fuzz to help me put up some blinds in the studio and I unpacked a few boxes that had been sitting in the basement. Then it was just a few hours a day, working on a Van Dyck copy I had started years ago when I was studying in New York. Before I knew it, I had spent more time in the studio in January than I had during the whole fall!
Unfortunately, some old habits resurfaced: The toxic thinking, the isolation, and last to come, I had a food issue. Aka, a binge. It happened in the first week of the New Year, and my eating had gotten kind of sloppy over Christmas, you know, the usual, a little bit of this and that, a bite of that and the other thing, more dessert more often, and it got harder and harder to stop with a healthy portion. Then there was one night when I just didn't want to stop eating. So, I didn't. I ate until my stomach felt like I had swallowed a bowling ball.
Luckily, it only lasted one day, and I was back to sane eating again, but I have some emotional work to do.
Maybe I'm too quick to dismiss this whole Seasonal Affective Disorder thing. The weekend was sunny and I felt better. I've also cranked the light box up to x-tra high, and leave it on for an hour or so. I don't feel so bad. I think I'm at about 65%. And then there was a news item on the national news about how doctors are seeing a big increase in people with low moods this fall, when the east coast has had one of the most overcast fall seasons in almost 60 years.
I'm tired of the guilt, of the shame of feeling like I'm doing something wrong. To HELL with it. Now I have to try and live that out, and stop slinking around with my tail shoved under my butt. I wish humans did still have tails. But only involuntary ones that wagged or sagged in true response to one's feelings. I keep up a good front when I'm not so low I have to take to my bed. Unfortunately, it's mostly a front.
Thank god the food is ok. I've not been going to any meetings, I've just felt too low, too vulnerable, yet I fear that this is going to catch up with me. But my support group doesn't feel like a support group any more. My disease is using it against me. I can't go to them for support, I feel like as an "old-timer" I think I have to be the support, and I don't feel up to it. I've got to change something here.
