One Way or Another, We're Going Back in Time

I had some crazy anxiety yesterday.... almost for no reason.  I thought maybe I was tired and needed rest, or am getting nervous about my trip, or changing meds, or something, and just felt anxious.   I even wondered aloud, "is the other shoe about to drop?".

And then, at the very end of the day, I got an email with some shocking news:  two former co workers from the gym I worked at previously have asked the owner of my studio if they can work with us (due to some drama at their current establishment).   The news threw me for a loop.     This news is upsetting because back in 2011/ 2012 we all basically got along - them, myself, and my current co worker (the one that doesn't speak to me since the hospital incident), and now.... well things are different and awkward.  So how will this affect how those guys treat me?   Will I be able to deal with being around the three of them conversing all day and not being included?   Can I continue to pretend this doesn't bother me?   I’m left out of conversations now - will it make that worse?   I feel like it's awkward for everyone – me, our clients, our other co workers – and while it doesn’t hurt as much anymore, it’s still just annoying to have to deal with.   It will be like stepping back in time, since it has been over a year that we all worked together.   On the other hand, , I've been fantasizing [ok romanticizing] about moving back to Albany... back to where people like me and respect me, despite how difficult it might be to start over.   It would be like stepping back in time, to some extent! Either way, the idea gave me incredible anxiety, and I ate everything I had on hand, instead of just writing and breathing I chewed.  I chewed and chewed and let the ideas spin in my head, until I was so tired I couldn't chew any more.  The other shoe has indeed dropped.

Some Days....

Some days it's easy to eat healthy and workout, and some days my brain and body just strongly disagree.

I want to workout, to keep up this great routine/ regimen I have that's helping me lose body fat.   But i'm tired.   And today it probably the last day I can 'cheat' before vacation..... that will give me one week to eat well, eat clean, and be lean and mean for Tuesday. 

BUT, the good news is that because I tried to prevent the binge by having grapes, dried figs (I know, lots of calories) and some yogurt, I was only able to eat my omelette, a few hash browns, and 2 pieces of french toast and one pancake, instead of ALL of it.   And as soon as I get to my next gym, i'll be throwing it all away, except the toast.  The toast I'm keeping in case I need another carb boost later today.  Besides, I think it's whole wheat. 

That's My Sheetz

I told him, jokingly, when he moved to South Riding, that the Sheetz on Rt 50 was "my" Sheetz and not to be seen there!   Joking, of course, but until now, I hadn't seen him there!

Of course, during a binge, my drive to Sheetz is urgent, tense, and filled with frustration to begin with, and pulling into the parking lot to see him pulling out only fueled my fire.  

I let it upset me.   In reality, it's like an annoying driver on the road.... you know, the ones that tail you despite the fact that the slow people are in front of you, or the ones that speed and zip in and out of lanes as if where they are going is so. much. more. important!  It's like that - irritating at the time, annoying enough to jog your memory in the next few hours, but can be shaken off.

I'm not sure he even saw me, and I kind of hope he did because this is all his problem and he needs to face it.  

It didn't change what I got:  2 sandwiches, trail mix, and the PB & Choc trail mix, which I ate every bite of and was completely sick 5 hours later. 

Remind me not to eat peanuts.  Never. ever. again. 

Overheard

Working in a gym setting for the last 5 years, I have overheard many many comments about how people (mostly women, but a surprising number of men) feel bad about their bodies.   We are our harshest critics, of course, but then there's actual dysmorphia.  

I hear skinny skinny women complain about feeling "puffy", when in reality they are dehydrated and the rest of us can only see muscle and bones on them.   I hear toned women complain about flabby thighs, butts, and (the dreaded) "back fat" when most women would give anything for their toned figure.   I hear fit older women complain about a small belly and "bat wings" ( i.e. flabby triceps) when they are actually in fantastic shape for their age and have no reason to complain when they should be thankful for their health.   

It's whats known as body dysmorphia, and the degree and intensity of it varies by person and their self esteem and self image.     The Mayo Clinic describes it:  "Body dysmorphic disorder is a type of chronic mental illness in which you can't stop thinking about a flaw in your appearance — a flaw that is either minor or imagined. But to you, your appearance seems so shameful that you don't want to be seen by anyone."

I've had it.  It comes and goes.  But I do my best to keep a positive self image and not let the negative thoughts "stick".  

This Too Shall Pass

"Bad days are normal, they are part of life. We all have them. True freedom comes when you finally realize that a bad day doesn't mean you're 'doing it wrong' or that what you're doing isn't working. We get into trouble because we respond to bad days by making drastic changes in our routines. 

Consistency and balance are the true secrets to long term success, and jumping from diet to diet in reaction to a bad day undermines that goal. 

The bad day will pass. They always do."

"You said 2?"

Yes, Mr McDonald's order taker, I said two.  Two big breakfasts with hotcakes.  

That's not what I said, of course, I just said "yes" to confirm, because I know he was just confirming the order - that's his job.   But I felt as if he was asking "Beth, do you really need 2?  Do you really need 1?  Is this what you really want?"   because that's what I was fighting inside.   I know I didn't want 2, I know I didn't even want 1.  But Expo Cafe was closed (!) and for some reason my body is very "off" this AM.  It is probably due to my going to bed at 6pm after overeating and drinking 2 beers which I never do!

I also did not workout yesterday which usually makes me feel guilty -> shame -> eat to feel better -> can't be trusted with food -> eat in desperation.  

So yes, I choked down two (2) big breakfasts from Mc Donald's.   They are kinda gross, actually.  And I still have a headache.   

But what if today I work on accepting myself as I am.   Doesn't matter what I eat or what I do or what I look like.  I may feel gross and fat inside, but what if that's ok?   What if I just accept that and be ME?!

Bitter tastes like.....

Bitter tastes like nothing, because I REFUSE to give in to this emotion of frustration and hurt that I feel lately.  

My co worker treats me as if I was dead.  Literally, he pretends I do not exist.  Fortunately I do not have to interact with him and we have just enough space that we can be in separate rooms during the day.  

And I know this is his issue, and that it is not healthy for him, and it's setting a horrible example for his child.   And it's showing me that these are his true colors and therefore he is NOT the person I thought he was.   I even overheard him mention doing this to someone else... pretending they didn't exist!  

He's only hurting himself, and setting a poor example for his child.  This is not ok behavior. Not in this situation where we have to be in the same room for a portion of the day.   Thankfully that is only a few hours, and the rest of the day is manageable.   

I went through a phase at first where it felt like being stabbed, and I really wanted reconciliation, so I tried. And I ate to numb that pain.  But now, I refuse to eat to numb the pain and ruin my personal goals.  The pain will eventually go away.

"You can’t change how people treat you or what they say about you.  All you can do is change how you react and who you choose to be around."

Breakfast

Me, ordering breakfast this morning:  "Hi, I would like to order a sad platter, with a side of frustration, a side of anger, and a cup of tears."

Expo Cafe lady:  "You mean a fruit salad?"

Me:  "oh, right!"

My favorite breakfast makes everything better.   Unfortunately I think this funk is hormonal (i.e. there's nothing I can really do about it), because I don't have any major circumstances to be sad about.... well, nothing more than the usual longings.   My omelette, hash browns, pancakes, and french toast tasted like sweet comfort!   Heavy and sitting in my stomach, it definitely doesn't support my goals or values.  But it tasted good and I need as many outlets for my mood as possible. 

So I have a feeling today will be full of journaling, of sitting still, and eating.  And with any hope, tomorrow will be better. 

All I Can Think About is Food

Different from an obsession, my brain is "stuck" on food for comfort, energy, and fuel.   It serves me in these moments...  food will comfort me, it will give me energy, or it will help  me curl up and pout and be sad and lonely like I feel. 

Today I choose to stick with my valued directions.  I choose to be a role model.  I choose other projects over just stuffing my face.   I have this blog to work on!  I have work coupons to make!  I have emails to send and answer!  So many things to keep me busy.  And some fresh air would greatly help.  These are my valued directions - keeping my priorities in check, and not giving in to the lust of food.  It is, afterall, just a lust.

Halloween Candy

Oh how I hate you, Halloween!  You and your plethora of candy!!   Candy corn, candy pumpkins, miniature sized snickers, milky ways, and just about any candy out there is FRONT AND CENTER at every store.  

In giant bags.  No, in GINORMOUS bags.

Costco apparently had the Biggest Bag Of Them All, because that is what my roommate bought, and I found out later that most people also bought their candy at Costco.
   
Which is fine, except we only used one bag for the kiddos, and we had an entire bag leftover.   

I resisted on the actual day of Halloween.  I had myself a beer [pumpkin ale of course], as a treat, and resisted the candy.

I felt really good about that.  Until Friday night.... I knew the rest of the bag was outside my door.... literally a huge, huge, huge bag full of all the best chocolate candy, was right outside my door.  

So I caved.  I succumbed and stuffed by face with as many peanut butter cups, kit kats, m&m's, peanut m&m's, nestle crunch bars, and milky ways as I could manage. 

I immediately felt guilty.  I worked out extra hard the following day.  And stuffed my face again Sunday.

Thankfully a friend stopped by Sunday morning and took the remainder of the candy away.   But I kept thinking about it.   Not that it felt good to eat that much, or even tasted special (we all know what chocolate and sugar taste like), but it was rebellious and "bad" and that felt good. 

But it's over now.... 'til next year, Mr. Pumpkin! 

Another's View

Thought I'd share this beautifully written essay on negative body image.  Some people just have a beautiful way with words, and Lynn Shattuk is one!

"If you have ever hated your body, you might recognize this voice.

It sounds like this, when I am on a run, feeling tired and a little dizzy: Keep running, it burns more calories. You’re flabby. What are we going to eat for lunch? You should just eat mostly vegetables. Remember how skinny you got when you were on that elimination diet after your son was born? Ugh, she has big boobs. Why are my boobs the first place I lose weight and the last place I gain? I really need to lose about seven pounds. My ass is giving itself whiplash.

It still pipes up at mealtime sometimes.

At the gym, it hollers.

When the voice hisses, I miss so much. I miss the crunch of leaves beneath my feet and the bare tree limbs stretching towards the sun. I miss the taste of warm, sweet coffee swirling in my mouth. One day, the voice appeared when I was weighing myself at my parents’ house, and for a moment, in humid anticipation of what the scale would say, I forgot about my infant daughter, sitting at my feet on the bathroom floor.

To look at me, you might not know I have this voice. I am not overweight, nor am I rail thin. But the disease that encompassing self-loathing, food addiction and obsession, and body and weight obsession doesn’t always show up on our bodies. It largely exists somewhere you can’t see, in our minds.

Lately I’ve been seeing a lot circulating on the internet about women and body image. From the Maria Kang “What’s Your Excuse?” controversy to Lily Myer’s stunning poetry, from Glennon Melton Doyle’s honest, lovely words toBrittney Gibbons’ excellent TED talk. From the stories and from the reactions to them, I think it’s safe to say that far, far too many of us live with this voice.

For me, the voice was born a long time ago. When I was in fourth grade and the nurse sent home an alarmed note because I’d gained nine pounds during the school year. It was handed down through generations of mothers and daughters in my family, a dark spiral of DNA. It grew when a babysitter told me not to drink too much milk because milk makes you fat. When I lost a bit of weight in fifth grade and a friend’s mom told me how great I looked. In sixth grade when I got hips but not boobs. When I learned to overeat to snuff out the swirling panic in my head. It blossomed every time I heard a woman say she needed to lose a few pounds or exercise more or not eat fat or carbs or fruit or sweets. When stupid boys made stupid comments about my body. When I saw every glossy, skinny magazine girl who seemed to blare: I am so happy because I am thin and beautiful! If you were thin and beautiful, you’d be so happy, too! 

At times, the voice was so loud that I heard almost nothing else.

I am almost 40 now. The voice is quieter, but it still lurks. I have used therapy and EMDR and twelve-step programs to fight it. My body has made two gorgeous, healthy babies and birthed and fed them, and that helps. Yoga and running usually help. Sometimes, telling the voice to shut the holy eff up helps.

I don’t let the voice speak through my mouth like it used to. No words slip out when I look in the full-length mirror and am unhappy; the thoughts just roll around in my head for a few minutes like spilled marbles before settling. We don’t have a scale at home; I got tired of it telling me how to feel.

These things help deflate the voice.

But it’s still there. It still takes up too much energy. Energy that I could use to write and love and soften.

The voice almost always distances me from other people, especially other women. It makes my heart shrivel and my thoughts turn catty. The voice slices and dices, segmenting body parts like cuts of juicy meat. The voice objectifies and minimizes. It dehumanizes.

Why is it so hard to fight this voice? To eradicate it completely?

Is it because it started when I was so young? Because every magazine or advertisement or television show I see feeds it?

I think so. But I think it’s also because the voice is fear.

It sounds like a critic, a strong, OZ-like presence, the voice of a director or a stern parent.

But when I peer underneath, it is pure fear. Vaporous, chameleon fear.

Fear that I am wrong and unworthy. Fear of being present and soaking up all the loss and light of being human. Fear of my own sheen, my capabilities, my possibilities. And maybe, maybe beneath all that, the fear believes—in a childlike way, because it was born in a child—that if I just looked a certain way, if I just weighed a certain number, I would always be loved and never sad and I would never, ever die.

We use our phones and toys, booze and cake, telveisions and computers, and our critical voices to wrestle out of the present. From being openhearted and brokenhearted to the world, to each other, to our mortality.

Part of the antidote to the voice, for me, is to remember what my body has done—loved and laughed, birthed and breastfed.

And to remember what it will do—get older.

Die.

When I remember that, I soften. I cry, which lets some of the fear seep out, pooling and flattening.

I don’t want to die. I don’t want my body to not be here. But no matter whether I can feel my flesh creasing my jeans or not, no matter how many wrinkles I do or don’t get, whether I can sense the gaze of men upon me as they walk past or not—I will die. Whether my soul lifts out of my body like a balloon rising into the sky, morphing and surviving—or not— my body will die.

When I remember this, it is impossible not to melt with gratitude. For my legs that can still walk and my fingers that can still touch my babies’ cheeks. For my eyes that can watch sunlight stride across the earth. For my crazy, anxious brain that takes it all in, making me human.

When I remember this, I want to use this body all up. This perfectly imperfect skin and heart and bones. I want to run and roll in leaves and do all the things women do in feminine hygiene commercials. Maybe more than anything, I want to be present to watch my kids become people out in the world, loving themselves and their bodies and others. I want to watch them working and wondering and becoming who they were born to be while I become who I was born to be.

When I blanket the fear with gratitude, I can see how very, very small it is. When I remember that the voice is a fearful child, I begin to learn to cradle it, to talk softly to it. To tell it, like I tell my son, that yes, we die, and it’s frightening.

But first? We get to live this fierce, wide, wrenching life. In these scarred, scared, shining bodies. These skin and stardust, temporary bodies.

If you have ever hated your body, and if you still hear this voice sometimes like I do, or all the time like I used to, this is what I hope for us:

That the voice shrinks and shrinks, until we find ourselves holding it in our palms like a husk, like a whisper. That our critic’s eyes soften and our hearts widen and we understand more and more how little this all matters: the numbers on the scale, the way the landscape of our skin curves beneath our clothing, the fleeting, narrow flash of beauty in the magazines.

That gratitude sprouts green like grass as everything blends and blurs together, until there is nothing left but love."