Heaving (7/365)

I am eating a plate of red pepper and cucumber with some Italian dressing drizzled on top.   It is 9pm and I also have a cup of water.  With ice because we are now fancy people, I suppose.

I have no answers as to how, truly, I will make this time different than others.  I do know that it is late at night and there are chocolate croissants in this house and as much as I want them, I don’t want them more and so they remain on the counter.   And I am, still the girl who hates vegetables with a rabid, instinctive passion where I find them selectively invisible when I open the refrigerator door no matter the fact that I bought them just hours earlier.  Bought them because I think I should.

Now I am trying to eat them because I think I should.  So I can buy more at the store and not feel like shit for letting them decay to ooze in the front of my eyes.  To have consumed some nutrients, some balance, some cheap gesture to this idea that I don’t just need to lose weight, I need to gain health.  And that’s as good as I can do.  I don’t think it will ever fly in the confines of my mind to just adore a sprig of asparagus.   But I have to do things I don’t want to do to get past the circle jerk, the circle of farming implements I keep stepping on and cracking myself in the face with.  Adulting.

It’s strange, because I was so irritable today and I think it’s only because I decided in my excitement to do a bit of a pre-weight loss check of the scale.  I saw it hadn’t really moved.  I was given pause, but there’s enough in my mind to keep me busy and I didn’t think I really processed it.  But it bothered me, I guess.  All the live-long day, a rage face.  The old cycle, the muscle memory that I can’t seem to shift out of.  I needed to eat, but even then, as you slouch toward Bethlehem, the whole reason feels obscured.

It’s not obscure.  It’s not two weeks ago that me myself and I had been on an epic binge.  Plates of cookies meant for whole squadrons went down my gullet, popcorn balls oozing with Karo syrup, waffles upon waffles soaked with maple syrup.  Anything sugary and sticky,…Starbucks beyond counting.  Pizza, and oh, word, the Chipotle.  It was extensive and out of control.  If they had been booze bottles, I’d have been dropped in some kind of detox facility.  Like a hungry fire no amount of wood could sate.

It was both typical and extra-intense.  It needed to be dealt with.

Now, I have to shift vision.  I have to give myself some joy and not fall down on the job. One monthly celebration worthy of a party and a night out.  Not lots of penny-ante wastes.

I can do this.  Just get me through to morning.

 

 

Selva Oscura (6/365)

It is going to take the whole year.

It is not going to happen overnight.

But if I keep going like this, it will happen.

I haven’t fallen off, nor given up.  I’ve bypassed treats, held my focus, kept walking.

There’s nerves around these posts for some reason.  I’ve paused for some reason, just like I’ve been angry today at my sister and mother – my mother who is awaiting news post a mammogram and doesn’t really have anything to do with the anger, and am trying to find out what that reason is.  Which, as we all know, is the best use of the written word.  To figure out why the fuck your head is no longer connected to the rest of you and maybe release the vise grip that reason has on you.

I’m mad, I think, at J.  But it’s so intermingled with being mad at myself for not speaking up about it, not finding myself remotely able to speak up about it, that I can’t unpack it and make demands about it.  It just is this third or fourth idea.  The first two are the thoughts of who we are as ourselves, the third is who we are together, and now, now it’s who we are not.   And we’re not together? But? It’s such a vast, near-Biblical sense of Purgatory.   Of me asking and being shut down for things that were once so readily given.  Of time having worked us over when I was confused and I am still confused.  I don’t want to ask him to move here.  I don’t want to say I will help him with everything he ever needs.  I don’t want to say I’m willing to rattle my already punch-drunk world to make my feelings clear enough that we can both take this seriously enough that I’d understand I need to say those other things or the third thought dies.

And then we have a laugh and a concerted moment of caring and I cry less than I want to but more than I should and I think about the last year, a year that my writing dried up, my thought processes deteriorated, my ability to question what was happening to me diminished because I was petrified that the truth is that I need him to do things for himself that he doesn’t and he needs the same for me and some of the sincerely held beliefs are at odds with my own.  Some of the essential things I want..parts of which I know he doesn’t.

And if you can’t speak honestly, then, what do you have?

I just know from knowing the tricks that are in his head, the faith he’s placed in me, the heart he’s given both literal and figurative and that half of my trouble is being halfway there.  Of holding back at critical junctures.  And the break I want won’t actually fix the root of the matter.  I don’t live a life that is fully accessible to outsiders.  The change I’ve felt in that regard is solely due to J.  He’s pushed, gently, and…

to be continued…

The Charming Charmer Charmed (5/365)

I owe a lot of words.  A fair wheelbarrow full of words.  Days upon days of not telling you the cut of my jib.

I apologize and am going to start making up for it.  I came home straight away from work and took a shower, just to get my own deep and yet ever-incipient blehness off.  Or at least the top layer of it.  Really, I thought, in my way, in my way that eight years or more years of writing has yet to cure me of, I can just get by with a handful of hours of sleep. I can take the shower in the morning.  A little more time to game. A little more time in the world of make-believe.  Someone else’s make-believe, mind.

The morning, this Priestess of the Holy Dawn discovers, only entails rapture for those who drag themselves up to meet it.  And I was in no fit state to drag myself anywhere.  Just a tragic gamer mess desperate for one more hour when there wasn’t one more to be had at 6:40 in the a.m.  The girlness was incidental.  But I felt sure that as bad as the hair was, as unctuous and displeasing as it appeared, I could at least mitigate the situation with my makeup bag.   The one I regularly leave in my car for just such a purpose.

Well, clever me, clever girl, unfit but dragged down to the parking lot, the Priestess makes a second discovery: no makeup bag.   Then she and I have to make a quick decision, right on the spot.  Go back up and spend 2 minutes looking for it and possibly be a few minutes later and have to do it at my desk which is not either of our favorites…or just go and assume nobody in this vast Vampire Factory will ever turn their head in my direction.

Have you any doubt as to which the Priestess and I selected as our professional behavior for the day?  I swear, I must have looked like death scraped up and served on toast.  Just frightful.  And this is the day that so many new things and new people had to be met.

So I came home as quickly as I could and am determined to get some sort of color on my zombie face tomorrow.  The lesson to all of this is that if I don’t pull myself away to handle my shit, it catches up with me.   And embarrasses me even when I swear I don’t care and it doesn’t matter.  And the game will still be there.  Everything will still be there, I lose nothing to take care of what I need to take care of.

More in an upcoming post as to how the diet is going (not not well, huzzah!), just suffice to say that I’ve been dumb about thinking the world will suddenly bend for me.  Maybe for as long as you have ever known of me.  Maybe longer yet.  And I’m not about to wise up. But I can stop being so damned stupid.

Catching Up (4/365)

You are owed parentheses.
I am in a great state of regret.
I didn’t post yesterday.
It was not on account of a screw-up.  I didn’t fall into a burrito or capsize into some sugary sea.  I did just fine. Imperfectly, but fine.
I just forgot.  I was playing Mass Effect, struggling through that vault on Elaaden – which if you’ve played it, you know exactly what I’m talking about.  I also was watching Critical Role in this final week before it comes back and blows all our faces off and I just forgot.
It’s a reminder to me that habits take energy and thought to keep the repetitive action chain going.  At least, they do at first. The momentum on day four does not yet exist even if I don’t feel so wildly ravenous and despairing of not being constantly on the verge of eating something bad for me. Not eating to hurt somebody.  Frankly, I can hardly get anything of this lunch down as I take a moment away from frenetic emailing to try and sustain myself.  I have to do more, so much more, after yesterday’s completely ironic laissez-faire conversation with a coworker where I called my level of work blissful.
Many, many changes at a job that over nine months has nearly given me whiplash with changes.  Natural in this sort of business, but at the same time, the reactions of those around me encourage me to worry even more.  Wirrah, wirrah, sis boom rah.
It is apparent that my brain is half fuzz. Though, not as an answer to the question of perfect attendance here, just as a notation on how much of my thinking needs constant corralling.  I think about one of these changes at work – a departure for someone I work closely with and my mind instantly glances over at the chocolate bar that is on my desk.  A chocolate bar I bought before I started on January 1st and I have had in my purse and something needs to happen with it – and I think, oh, I could give it to this friend, I should do something nice for her, oh, I should take her out for lunch…but there isn’t time. But you know, some sort of celebratory lunch for me…?  It’s all serotonin and dopamine and giddy giddy giddy don’t stress.
I am not sure if those impulses, however much I can curb them, will ever go away.  That is a bit depressing to think about.   Day four is going to probably look a lot like day 304 in terms of me trying to drag myself towards the light.
I am actually doing well with the diet.  I am actually doing okay in that even though I eat spinach like I’m getting a spoonful of Popeye with every bite, and I feel positively tortured by vegetables…I am eating them, and I am surviving. I am hitting the bare minimum marks I need to hit to feel engaged and okay.  I don’t want to end any streak I know I’ve started.

And You Called Her for a Liar: 3/365

I have caught the Third Day Flu.  The notorious third day, what the fuck, my body’s constant glucose drip that I have so long gone out of my way to provide it with, is gone Flu.

It is the day when if you’re not sure you want to turn your life on your head for this that you give the hell up.

Some days it just sucks.  And I have melted at these points.  I have given up so many diet ghosts because I would really preferred to have somehow not been hit with this natural reality – and my preference in the moment trumped (fuck him and all he stands for) my ability to recall that this is what happens.  There’s some sort of memory block that happens when I’m planning or thinking about low-carb or just reducing the horrifying amount of sugar I generally, casually, eat.  Like having a child, I guess.  You have to forget or you would never, ever do it again.

It happens and it sucks to get headaches and be both hungry and repulsed by food and needing to add water and feeling irritated about having to pee more frequently to accommodate the Suez Canal’s worth of water your supposed to be swallowing every day.

It sucks and rather than transcend, today I choose to do what I need to do and whine at the internet, my very safe place here upon the internet, that it sucks.

But I won’t quit.   Wouldn’t that be hilarious and tragic if all it took was three days off the go go juice and I am broken down completely? Ready to capitulate to any terms for a handful of marshmallows (don’t tempt me, my friends.)

I will respect the fact that I am taking step 3 to get to step 365 – a step ostensibly somewhere far out from where I am right now.  I am taking it like I take my vegetables: with a face that indicates I’ve just been hit in the face with a bitter, skunky baseball.  Literally, my eyes will water at a piece of asparagus.  But I think half of that is just not troubling to cook them in a way that will make them delicious rather than simply edible.  The other half is just the training in my brain that anticipates punishment and a sense of “missing out” and sitting in chairs for hours after dinner refusing to eat the lima beans that were served to me.  Lima beans that tasted like mold, like musty, rotten fuzz in a leathery shell.  Hiding them in napkins to look as though I cleaned my plate.

This is not deep childhood trauma.  This is just an association in my mind that I am well aware of and have build ruts into with how regularly I work at defending and recalling this stance.  Vegetables are not gross.  They are helpful and fine.

So I need to break down the aversion and eat more of them.   Ugh.  I will.  It’s important.

The book: Life After Life by Kate Atkinson.

 

Prayer Hours at the Temple of Love (2/365)

January 2nd.  We’ve come back again just like that Backstreet Boys song.  That’s my era, my friends, perhaps I’ve evaded saying so for eight years of blogging, but that’s music I grew up with.  Along with The Smithereens and Liz Phair and Goo Goo Dolls (especially, now, their pre-Superstar Carwash albums) and a host of others I should write about some time.

Anything to not stand before you with my five hundred words about intention again.  I’m not bored with doing it.  Certainly not on day two of this segment of my life, this year arc of experimenting with what happens when you just don’t do the shit that always fucks you up.  You just don’t do it, touch it, come near it, allow it space in your life.  I’m not bored already with trying.  Just framing the language of YES, I AM TRYING TO BETTER MY LIFE in such a way that we both feel like I mean it and that I’m not overworking every single sentence to get us there.  Just to enjoy this as the opportunity it is – to rebuild my journal and do right by myself.

I ate low-carb today.  I got up and walked a smidge, took some recycling to the bin that needed to go, got low-carb groceries.  Pro Tip: order your groceries if your grocery store provides this service.  It means I can’t wander the aisles contemplating carb counts and squeaking by with eating something quasi-justified, or saying fuck it, and asserting I will start tomorrow, and filling the cart with pizza and candy bars.  Not that I have ever done anything like that.

The above means I left the house for something other than work.  Got outside.  Immediately felt rrefreshed and energized and everything as advertised.  This needs to be done.  Working my brain into a tizzy about doing it and never doing it is…a gross result.  It’s icky to swirl around in the same thoughts for too long.  It’s like using the same bathwater for a month.

I need to find a book.  If there were many of you, I’d poll you.  I just need to pull a book and get it read.  There’s surely a couple here I haven’t read, hell, I could even read The Ship of Theseus again and let my brain swell up with possibilities.

I will find one and put it in my bag tonight before my head hits the pillow.

I’ve been playing Mass Effect; Andromeda, not exclusively, but nearly.  I have my opinions – mostly I like it but there is a certain rush job quality that Bioware can be so much better than.  You see the edges here.  Sometimes you get stuck in them and hope for a recent save.  Not to be excessively metaphorical.  I am just working out months and months of not posting like this, friends.

Eventually…no…I and this will always be weird in this particular fashion.  It’s okay if you don’t like it.

No particular beginning that you can discern happening for a week.  This is just…the in-between.

One-Star Review (1/365)

I am on the path. I know the start weight.  I know the score.  The feeling.  The muscle memory of January 1.  This is the easiest day of the whole thing.  The simplest to find the Fitbit and get it charged.  To look up a few low-carb websites.  To add a couple glasses of water to your morning.  To eat some cheese and be distracted by the newness of it all.

This is the day for all of that to happen.

I have gained weight over this year of undocumented emotional indulgence.  The roller coaster of are they, aren’t they, will they, won’t they, do they, don’t they has taken its only just now acknowledged toll.  I’ve pretended that I feel the same, even if stairs leave me slightly ought of breath, if I feel slightly overclocked sometimes, a mind and heart racing without any particular stress to trigger it.  There are signs that are subtle and not that double orders of chile cheese fries have an impact to the body.

I don’t feel the resonating thrum around the idea of providing this page with yet another, probably annual at this point, mea culpa.  I don’t feel like a public face palm is all that valuable to me, personally.   I was mad earlier, overlooking the scale, not shocked, but disappointed that I thought that the magic in my magical thinking was hardcore enough as to invent a workaround for the Law of Conservation.    That I could eat violently – eat against imperfection – and end up perfect.  End up unmarked and not carrying all of the impact of adding dessert at every meal, of cravenly eschewing anything remotely green in color (the chile was mostly red in hue). As ever, the value to me, or to you now, is in the path forward where either we do a little better at not fucking things up, or we don’t.  I mean, as much chatter as I can provide us both about it and we all know I can chatter with the best of them when I’m of a mind, the things I do today are what the rest of my life will look like if I don’t break the chain.

I have my plans.  My flexible suggestions that I am going to be writing into law once I am sure I am not going to spend every day breaking them.  I am writing them down, but not here.   Again, not until I am doing something I can comment on.  Day One, as has been explained to me at my new corporate job, is energy and excitement and press releases and the whole embodied concept of LAUNCH! It’s important and necessary to cast your boat off the shore hard and get moving.  But it’s Day Two, it’s the realization that people – perhaps you, dear reader – have moved on.  The excitement for them is already behind them, scratched out of their bullet journals, and it is on you to design and sustain your own passion and maintain it so you can sell it back to them all the way down the road.

So I have done the Day One Showing Up.  I have provided myself the rationale.  I have not eaten a single marshmallow of the bag of marshmallows that have sat next to me on the couch all day long.  I have joined the hordes of perpetual failure: I have started a diet  and I hope I achieve my goals with it.  But this is the same group that is winnowed out into those who get somewhere, who do make it.  It has to come out of the pool of everyone who is willing to say, goddamnit, okay, maybe my Id can’t run me from morning to night and I have to put my foot down.  All of us tryers standing at the shore, taking the shove into the waters we know, pulling ourselves into the waters we don’t.