hiatus (2).

I typo’d that title as “Siatus”. Sigh-atus.

During the past six months, I have

  • been back off and back on the sugar-wagon many times. Currently off, but it’s only been about 5 days.
  • started taking higher and higher doses of sertraline (Zoloft) because it stopped being effective. Several times.
  • decided to stop taking sertraline because it was getting fucking ridiculous.
  • started taking Cymbalta. Loved it.
  • stopped having obsessive thoughts about when my next sugar fix was going to be.
  • started having obsessive thoughts about when my next sugar fix was going to be.
  • started taking a higher dose of Cymbalta. Loved it.
  • stopped having obsessive thoughts about when my next sugar fix was going to be.
  • started having obsessive thoughts about when my next sugar fix was going to be.
  • started taking a higher dose of Cymbalta. Loved it. (see where this is going?)
  • realized that I was on an anti-depressant and I was still very fucking depressed.
  • stopped taking the Cymbalta.
  • put my doctor in a half-nelson until she gave me a scrip for Wellbutrin.

We’ll see how well this works. I am fairly confident that it will do great for the depression, but I’m not sure how well it’ll do for the food. Luckily, I got a nice reboot in the last week: Critter brought home a sweet little 24-hour flu, so I’ve barely eaten anything in the past 5 days, let alone sugar.

Oh, and I’ve started jogging. I’m not actually sure that you can call it “jogging”, however, because I’m not actually sure that both of my feet are completely off the ground at once at any point during my stride. So it’s kind of a jog-walk. But you know what? It gets my heart rate up higher than walking does and it looks like jogging (although nobody actually sees me because I wait until it’s dark outside) and I feel good about it, so who cares?

I’ve gotten up to jogging 3/4 of a mile, which was my 2-block-by-2-block route, and now I need to do a longer route. I’m probably not going to do that until I feel a bit better, though. I’m still dealing with vertigo from Cymbalta withdrawal and fatigue from being sick (and from Cymbalta withdrawal. And from insomnia from Wellbutrin acclimation. Oh yeah, and from getting up 15 million times in the night every night the past week from some combination of me/Sean/Critter being sick, Critter teething, or whatever. Oy).

Back on track soon. I can see the track from here, at least.

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punishment.

Today in therapy (I love my therapist), I talked a lot about the binge eating cycle that I’ve gotten myself back into.  I eat. A few cookies, a little bit of chocolate, something. And then I feel bad/guilty for eating. And then I feel that I need to be punished for being bad. And so my punishment is to eat more. Finish the box, or the bag, or the carton. And I don’t enjoy that at all. I’m sitting there, stuffing M&Ms into my face, and I’m feeling physically sick.

One of the things I’m discovering is that, sure, it’s emotional eating, but there are fifteen bajillion different emotional reasons. It’s not just one emotion there. I don’t just binge when I’m sad. I binge when I’m happy, when I’m tired, when I’m frustrated, when I’m anxious, when I’m excited, and when the moon is waning gibbous. It’s almost like there isn’t a pattern… but there is. There’s a lot of patterns, is all.

I just need to deconstruct and unravel them. And then weave the scraps into something more useful and pleasant.

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hiatus.

It’s been a really long time since I wrote anything. Damn.

I’m off the wagon.  I need to get back ON the wagon. Sean doesn’t know. I am scared to tell him. I know that he doesn’t read this, so this isn’t some half-assed cop-out telling.

In good news, though, I started therapy.  We haven’t been talking about food issues, per se, but a lot of what we’ve been talking about touches on my food issues. Control, permissions, comfort, rebellion, punishment; it’s all in there.

I *heart* my therapist. Hope she can help with this food shit, because it’s getting old.

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comfort.

Everyone has their own very special comfort foods. I have a lot of them. Depends on what kind of comfort I’m looking for. Miss my mom? Something savory and creamy, like fettuccine alfredo. PMS? Peanut butter cups. General depression/angst/cloudy day? Ice cream.  I’ve had to work on reconfiguring my comfort food needs, because a lot of what I consider to be comfort food is now mostly off-limits these days. I have been eating much more in the way of salty snacks lately. This is probably sub-optimal, but it’s probably also better for me than eating lots of sugary snacks, so I’m going to let it slide.

I was talking to Sean during dinner tonight about food (no, really!), and how Christopher was eating pretty much everything we put in front of him (cheese, bananas, pasta, salmon, roasted red peppers, eggs), and how I was pretty sure that he wasn’t going to grow up being a picky eater (knock wood). I was a picky eater as a child, and I know it was probably difficult for my mom to deal with. Heck, I was a picky eater well into adulthood. I still am, but it’s not nearly as severe. I’ll try almost anything, as long as it doesn’t have strawberries in it. Almost.

Sean observed that a lot of my reluctance to try new foods comes across as fear to him. I thought for a moment, and realized that he was right. There is fear there. See, because I am such an emotional eater, just about every food I eat is comfort food, to some extent. If I try a new food, I might not like it, and if I don’t like it, I don’t get any comfort out of it. He’s learned to introduce new stuff to me slowly, and almost always when I’m in a relatively good mood to begin with. As long as I feel safe, and as long as there is something familiar that I can eat as a back-up, I’m comfortable trying new things.

I was talking to another friend earlier today. She has similar food issues with regards to emotional eating and boredom eating. She and her husband were enjoying an Ecstacy trip together, and she said something that really struck me: “I’m filled with joy, and I’m not eating anything!” Made me realize that I really need to get to work on figuring out where else (other than food) I can find reliable joy. As long as I’m on Zoloft, Ecstacy’s not really an option (not to mention, it’s a pretty damn temporary fix).

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jeans.

I had a big happy moment this morning.  I grabbed a pair of jeans out of the clean laundry pile, and put them on.

Without a struggle. These are a pair of jeans that I’ve been able to wear, but I would have to do the too-fat-shimmy to get them over my ass, and then the suck-it-in-and-lean-back-maneuver to get them zipped and buttoned. Today? I pulled them on. I zipped and buttoned them. I don’t feel like they’re digging into my waist when I sit down. I feel comfortable in them.

This is awesome. I actually can see/feel a physical difference in my size. It’s encouraging. Granted, they’re still a size 22, but eventually they’ll be too big and I’ll go buy a pair of 18s to squeeze into (and eventually they will be too big)…

I was looking down at my upper belly fat (I hate my belly fat, by the way. It’s sharply divided into two rolls. One is above my belly button, and the other below.) last night and I think my upper roll is smaller. I can’t wait until it’s gone. I told Sean, “This bit right here is my least favorite chunk of fat on me.” I think that’s why I enjoyed wearing corsets so much when I went out to clubs and such — they did an awesome job of hiding that particular bit of my fat.  So far, in other good news, the boobs don’t seem to have shrunk. Yay!

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halloween.

I’ve been avoiding writing about halloween for a while. I have the bare beginnings of a draft sitting in my draft pile that’s been there for weeks. I’d been dreading even thinking about the holiday, because it’s so utterly saturated in sugar.

Last year (and the year before, and probably the year before that (etc etc etc), I adored halloween. I looked forward to the mass of “fun size” candy, so many more varieties than there usually were. And candy corn! I could buy a tub of candy corn and eat the whole thing! Seriously, I would stop by Bartell’s every goddamn morning and buy a big bag of candy, and by the time I left work it would be entirely gone. That’s a lot of candy. That’s a scary amount of candy. Appropriate, no?

And so, I was worried about halloween this year. Every time I’d go to the grocery store, there they would be, staring me in the face. Bag after bag of candy. My favorite kinds. Kit Kats. Reeses Sticks. Dove Bites. 100 Grand. Twix. Old friends, lying there on the shelves, whispering “buy me! you know you want to…”

But I didn’t. Every time I walked past, I really wanted to. I wanted to buy two or three bags and take them home and hide them and eat and eat and eat. But I didn’t.

Sean asked me periodically, “what’s your plan for halloween?” I didn’t have an answer. I always replied that I was thinking about it. Really, I wasn’t. I was trying very hard to pretend that halloween didn’t exist. Well, the day before halloween rolled around, and I had to face the facts — we needed candy to hand out to the trick-or-treaters. I knew that we would be getting lots of them; our neighborhood is full of kids. So, I did the only reasonable thing that I could think of. I bought candy that I didn’t like to hand out. The plan was Snickers (I don’t like nuts in my chocolate), but the store didn’t have any, so I got Nutrageous bars instead. And then Jujyfruits, or whatever the hell they’re called. God, I hate those things. I didn’t stoop quite so low as to buy a bag of Necco wafers, however. I still have some pride. And… it worked. The candy was in the house for over 24 hours, and I didn’t have any of it.

However.

Saturday, I went to that women’s health day at Swedish, which I wrote about previously. They fed us lovely box lunches. Mine included a chocolate chip cookie. No problem. It’s just one cookie. And it was good, too.

Fast forward to late afternoon/early evening. I’m hanging out with Sonja. She pulls down the bowl o’ candy (giveaway leftovers from both our house and Sean’s mom’s house) and grabs something. I think to myself, “hey, I should have something, too…” and I eat a little fun pack of M&Ms.

Fast forward to Sunday afternoon. Sean’s little sister Robyn is having a small birthday thing. We all go over to Sean’s mom’s place for cake. I eat chocolate cake. I stand there and stare at the chocolate cake. My mind is racing. Cake. I want cake. How can I get more cake? Maybe I can come over tomorrow and Bette will let me have more cake. She won’t want to eat it all herself. She’ll just offer it to me. Maybe I could go home and make a cake. CAKE. I want to eat it. I want to eat the cake. Please let me eat the cake. There’s got to be some way I can eat lots and lots of cake.

Holy shit. That, my friends, is the voice of a serious addiction.

It’s subsided since then, but it’s still there.

As a result of this weekend, I have a couple of new sugary-food rules.

  1. No desserts without Sean.
  2. One dessert a week, tops.

It’s scary how quickly my mind flipped back into must-eat-sugar mode. It’s like I turned into a sugar zombie, single-minded in my search for sweet sweet brains. It would be so damn easy to slip back into that space. This is going to be a lifelong struggle for me, and not only does that make me feel sad, but I also kind of resent it. Life isn’t fair.

Oh well.

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density.

I had my weigh-in Wednesday at the gym. Over the month of October, I lost a total of 2 pounds. TWO. This disappointed me. I thought I was doing better.

Well, today, I got confirmation that I actually AM doing better. I am at Swedish, at that women’s health day thing that I mentioned a few weeks ago. As a part of this event, I got some free screenings.

The first one I got was the awesomest, so I am going to go backwards. Sorry!

I got my finger pricked, and they tested my glucose and cholesterol.

Glucose was 90. I had eaten a bagel a little over an hour beforehand, so that was awesome.

HDL (good cholesterol) was 56. Anything greater than 40 is good.

LDL (bad cholesterol) was 113. Anything lower than 130 is good. I’m a little close to the edge there, so I should be a LITTLE careful.

Blood pressure was 120/62.

I did the body-fat percentage thing where you hold the little doohicky that is kind of like a game controller, and got my first happy of the day: I’m at 44.7% body fat!!  When I started this, I was at 47%. That’s serious progress! This really made my day, because I haven’t been feeling like there have been actual results from the working out, but here, I actually HAVE lost a significant chunk of fat. Go, me! I’m still morbidly obese, too (BMI 40.3)! Woo!

And then, I did the bone density scan. It’s an ultrasound through your heel, which was kind of cool. The technician who did mine looked at the results and said, “wow, that’s good. (pause) that’s REALLY good.” My T score was 2.03. Apparently, a “normal” score is anything between -1 and +1. My bones are more dense than approximately 97% of healthy young women’s.

I’m DENSE. This actually explains why people look at me and don’t believe that I actually weigh what I do; I probably weigh a bunch more than other people of my dimensions, because of how dense my bones are. Yay, bones! This also means that I probably don’t have to worry about osteoporosis, which is again, a big YAY.

In other news, my triceps are still hurting… and my trainer worked with me on Wednesday. Ow.

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