Pink in Eureka

Certain forms of hysteria have taken hold.  Perhaps because I made the step to get the blog running in some sort of functional form, I have begun to think I am smart about certain things.  This is not the case.

This is day two of going low-carb.  Low-carb = traditional Atkins, 20 carbs or so for the first two weeks, then, we evaluate how shit is going.  I feel better in a lot of ways already.  The scale, as ever, is fucking with me, but it says I lost 3 pounds (yes, we can hear the yelling of WATER WEIGHT from here) overnight.  I don’t know…I do know that it mattered to me to just start this.  To just do it so here I am.  Having had more vegetables today than I’ve had in eons.  More water.    And less food overall.

I still feel weird and tired (again, the shouting of transitioning and detoxing groggery can be heard for miles) and I have done bare minimums in terms of exercise.  But I did do it.  I did do it with nary a complaint.  I will do it again tomorrow.

I keep thinking about what I want.  That is one thing that my new job has really helped with.  The courses I’ve taken have impressed upon me that I need a plan and I need to work the plan. Goal setting and moving in slow, steady steps towards the future.  That you can actually say I want this big, overblown, challenging result and if you mete it out into little, manageable daily contributions, it would happen.   That’s the issue and that’s why I’ve spent so much time avoiding finishing any of these little, manageable steps.  So that I don’t end up somewhere I don’t want to be.

I’ve done this instead of deciding where I want to be and working really hard to make that happen.

I don’t know if I’ll write this way all the time, but I like that this all has just started and it isn’t January 1 and it isn’t a Monday (not yet).  It’s not a perfect takeoff (I don’t imagine I could even recognize it if it was), but it’s like how with every paycheck, I’m adding to savings, already it feels significant.  If I continue on, the possibility continues on.  If I keep clapping, Tink still glows.

So.  What I want is to be with him.  Not…necessarily in terms of trying to have a partnership on a level that demands that one of us move to where the other one lives, though that doesn’t faze me as it once did, but I want a weekend. I want a day of shared space.  Of mutual presence.  Of figuring out if the shit in my head is anything more than shit in my head.   Not putting carts before horses.  But this, all of this, tells me, I gotta keep on this diet on track if this is really what I want.  And I keep testing it and realizing that it is.

 

 

 

 

 

Cet endroit chaud et lumineux

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I’m hopeful that I can carry this post over to MyFitnessPal.  I just need to be present there.  I am also hopeful that the internet will remain connected long enough for me to draft and post this.  I’ve written every day – however, internet blackouts have kept those posts as word docs so I’ll edit them in soon.

Some of this will be replicated in earlier posts, but I don’t think I’ve given much detail there – if at all, so I will not have to mind repeating myself.

Today was Sunday.  A day of not being on-call.  A day of not being anyone’s employee but my own.  In that regard, I did one thing of significance.  I left the house.

It is odd.  You build a thing up in your mind as difficult and it builds its own little wall around the idea.  What was once simple and easy and done every single day, for me, can become the sort of issue that I wake up and find myself panicking over.  I have, of course, been travelling on my own – particularly lately as I have had to take those long drives into the old stomping grounds to perch myself on the old stomping lane for my little part-time job.  In some ways, I have been doing precisely the opposite of what an agoraphobe desires.  I’ve been in public, talking with people, driving, active.   But in my head, I’ve been doing what I can to not think of anything.

My grandfather passing, dear little Peanut having to leave this mortal realm to wherever kitties play beyond this life, getting this new job and how much it pricks the heart of my body issues, visiting my friends and then realizing the depth of their absence in my life, feeling profound deja vu with issues related to the current job, feeling tired all the time.  That was May.

Food, through this, and soda, too, has been this coping mechanism.  The great cure-all to make time pass, to make time stop.  To shut out all the shaming voices that I hear about the failures and frustrations I am experiencing right now.  And the other good tactics I know about, in my head, feel impossible.  It’s those walls that exist around them after avoiding them for a month.  Exercise felt like digging through a brick wall with my fingernails.  Writing down the fact that I had ice cream for breakfast and a brownie for late breakfast today still feels like I’m spitting in the wind.  I feel embarrassed, but at the same time, like I’m not ready to take off the bandaid.  Even if I don’t have the money right now to keep eating out for every meal.  I have to start paying attention.

But I told my parents about the job situation.  They didn’t flip out.  They didn’t catastrophize the way I did for them.  They absorbed it and supported me.  They did, as they do, start to think of ideas what to do, but not as though I needed to do them…more of a group brainstorm.  It was okay.

Somehow, telling them what was going on took a load off of my mind. I didn’t need to go get some extra food after seeing them to take off the edge of having spent so long thinking about these painful things.  I didn’t go buy a bottle of soda just for the craving.

So I feel, somehow, like I’ve done something right.

And on another note, bonne matin!

The Sweet Consumptive

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HEY YOU.

You know what you need to stop doing?  You need to stop putting caffeine in your body in the afternoon.  Sugary caffeine in your body 3-4-5p.m. ain’t doing you no favors when it comes to this whole chilling the fuck out situation…

So, okay.  My plan was to write on the short story and get that all sewn up and then gleefully post the word count here and go on to my other projects.  That, I don’t think is going to happen.  Still gonna try to work as so often after I refuse or think that tonight is not the night for it, some vision will bubble up to the surface, but this girl is jumpy and panicky for no reason.

Well, the reasons are that I exercised and I ate below my calorie counts for today – mostly by having a big lunch (or a lunch that filled me up at Panera that was good but full of salt and sugar) and then added a tall skinny caramel macchiato – my weapon of choice these days – and I saw that damn, that’s the calories I need all used up.  So I stopped with the eating (save for a few pretzels).  And now I am bouncing off the walls, trying to focus and freaking out that I can’t.
So that’s why this post is happening.   Sorry, I want to say.  But it’s really borne out of something good which is giving a damn about doing this when I have had all sorts of terrible impulses and giving up the trick vibes and I haven’t.  I’ve lost 14 pounds so far.  I started higher than ever before, I have further to go than ever before, but I’m still going.  I’m definitely still learning and the lessons become clearer all the time.

I am also hanging out in a MST3K dating facebook page group.  I don’t know.  The whole premise makes me laugh – not the idea of the group, which is a fine and sensible idea and I like, pretty exclusively the guys who are intelligent enough to find MST3K funny, but the idea of me being there is laughable.  Because it’s me being an encouraging force for people to chill the fuck out about being so goddamned desperate about finding out of this relatively tiny pool of people spread out all over the country.  It’s me being this sage voice of reason.  There’s worries about the ratio of men to women, who messages who and when and I…for my part, feel as though there’s no rush in the slightest.  People – men – have been kind to me, but I realize how much I’m hung up on Mr. Confusion’s style.  A man who can write to me like he could and I’m not…it’s all a probably terrible idea, but I’m staying on that road, too.

In the interim of all this, I found the time to get obsessed as hell with this short film set to Ane Brun’s music which I think is such a beautiful work of art…did I mention this yesterday? Perhaps I did.   You should watch it, oh my word.

I love it so much that the young man in the film who becomes the old man, totally mentally cast him in my story.

Okay.  I feel very obnoxious, so off I go.  Till tomorrow.

Melting Down the Broomstick

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I am writing to you now over my plate of roasted chicken thigh and a stewy wine and carrot and cherry tomato concoction (leftovers, I might add) and this is something of an achievement.  In that, I chose this of my own free will after leaving the house for writers’ group and having a fair amount of calories to allot for dinner.

I’ve felt a bit Lucy McGoose lately about the diet.  Still doing it, still tracking, still exercising, but my heart and brain have been slowly melting down the broomstick of intention.  The fact that I have all of this extra time, but not really any extra money, and in fact will have less money than ever…none of that seems to have sunk in yet.  I feel as though I am floating, unable to affect even so much as a detectable increase in friction.   In part.  Sort of.

I have to qualify that because today was good insofar as I made choices that reflected my participation in the diet, lifestyle change, whatever.  I did things and refused offers and drank water and thought about it without shoving it out of my mind.  Without lingering regrets about not getting another teaspoon of ice cream or being given leave to go fall apart some fast food.  It was just too many calories, it was just factual that the food equated to more calories than I had to give, so it wasn’t possible.

It was nice to feel it so clear in my mind.  So straightforward to stop when you are supposed to stop.

So, yes, hello.  How are you?  I am well.  It feels like I need to make introductions despite having been here every day – the writing has been fruitful and I knocked out another section for group.  Perhaps this has been part of the disconnected sensation.  So here’s the news:

  1. Getting pretty excited for Seattle.  After picking the parents up at the airport, I’m ready to take another flight.  To feel those hundred thousand little things that travelling provides – the alertness, the expectations, the freedom, the vulnerability, the newness, and of course, getting to see my friends.  Taking off all the encumbrances of who I am here, and being who I am – but there.  I know what I mean.
  2. The working 4 hour days has really thrown me.  It all comes down to habit.  So the plan tomorrow is to get up at the usual time, not linger in bed, and work out and clean up for a bit.  Then get ready and write.  Build the right muscles, Popeye.
  3. Tomorrow, too, I plan to put some makeup on my face.  I have missed doing that.  My morning routine has evolved out of taking enough time to even be alive to the degree in the morning where I would recognize missing it.  I do miss it, though.
  4. Put on some pants.  Same size as the jeans I’ve got on which are getting really loose on the legs and NOPE.  Closer, but a big ol’ NOPE.  But I didn’t find that painful, but instead, a target.  When those work, we’ll have done something concrete.  So shooting for that.
  5. UH.  Tomorrow.  Tomorrow!

 

 

The Shape of Crazy

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Some days you have to just say that, well, okay, putting back the pint of ice cream a couple spoonfuls after you felt like you were losing control is a victory.

Going over and feeding the animals who needed you despite being lost in a video game is a victory.

Replying to an email you’d half-forgotten about for two days rather than feeling guilty you didn’t immediately answer it and blocking it out of your memory is a victory.

Knowing you needed some protein and getting up to cook a filling meal for yourself to keep yourself on an even keel even if you probably had less care over the calorie counts than usual is a victory.

Letting yourself be open to crying, mindfully checking your brain and giving yourself quiet time, even if you couldn’t actually break down and turn on the waterworks.  Realizing you couldn’t because you didn’t need to.  Because you are in the very midst of resolving the problem you would be crying about.  All of that is a victory.

Being not exactly when everything in you wants you on lockdown, wants you at quota, wants to take the knife and measure you flat against the lip of the cup is a victory.

Going through and putting in your calories even if it means you’re over.  Recognizing that even if you never put in your calories again, be it in this app or another, you are still eating them.  Not despairing over this is a real victory.

Accepting that this is that time of the month when you get extra hungry and you get extra angsty and you get extra low and you get extra extra about everything and you can’t change it.  You can let it go by and not change your behavior based on these few days.  Doing that is a big victory because the impulse to say, no, I am this shitty and failing and ravenous and out of control is strong.  That I am at all able to call upon the impulse to say I am an unassailable fortress of light and an indestructible obelisk of cardio exercise is a victory.

Cluing into the fact that the reason your face goes numb is because you crush it into your palm for hours on end whilst playing video games.  You are not suddenly developing bells palsy.  I am giving you this victory, but I do hope you’ll be a little bit more chill next time.

Looking at Sunday night without a violent fright about the Monday morning that follows is a glowing, smoking, white-hot victory.

Looking at OKC and seeing Mr. Confusion’s mug unexpectedly and feeling less strongly than I might is a victory of the good.

Being willing to forge ahead with all my big plans even if they feel impossible and deflated and imperfect and basically made of embers and not the fire they sparked.   It is my focus on them that makes them real, not their inherent worthiness.  Writing this story happens with me writing it.  Practicing driving happens with me putting myself behind the wheel.  Not giving up is my biggest possible victory.

 

 

 

Devil’s Resting Bitchface

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Okay.

I woke up fine.  Wrestled with the scale.  Is it the same or did I lose .8 lbs?   I got both answers and only one is really acceptable right now (no, it’s fine, I have a year, I have a lifetime, but you know, fuck) so I went back to bed so I didn’t have to think about anything and ended up sliding in and out of weird climbing dreams where I was clearly thinking way too hard.   A climbing pit inside a mall that was shutting down and I accidentally ended up getting left behind there and having to climb these odd manufactured mountains with these grips that just looked like regular drawer handles and it was, in some ways, easier than I feared.

Still, I woke up mad.  It might have been the email from my sister about needing to pay my part of the bills and being pretty sure that if I gave her any money I couldn’t pay my student loan payment and suddenly, last night’s exercise – a bit more intense than usual – had a delayed impact.

This is PMS.  Full throttle, son of a bitch, give me a drink and stay away from me or I will light you on goddamned motherfucking fire PMS plus, as it turned out, an odd explosion of anxiety and panic.  Even though got the go-ahead from the boss so I technically got paid, or will be on Monday and so did the sister, I think even the relief threw on the other side of Whack.  Wherein I decided, like a crazy person, that I couldn’t feel my cheek properly and then silently wugged over that.  And then basically proceeded to attempt the grocery story and doing the welfare check on the animals while my parents were away and eating and exercising over there and just…finding myself thinking bizarre and unhelpful things.

Nevertheless – I did buy food.  90% of it healthy, plus a miniature pizza aggressively encrusted with sodium.   Everything I ate I tracked and we’re under given that I did exercise…doing the 3 mile walk in the aggressively silent parents house with my music playing on my phone like some sort of funeral march.

I know this will pass, but grah, and shit, and ugh, and it isn’t stopping me.  It isn’t debilitating me.  It is just unnerving me and wasting my time.  Like, my dad texted us this picture of himself by a giant ceramic shark hung upside down on some pier somewhere in Florida where they are vacationing and, to my great relief, having a great time, clearly.  He makes a dad joke about having caught it after going sponge diving.  And I had a thought too morbid to post here and it’s like, great, thanks, that’s incredibly unhelpful brain.

And right now my brain is just cackling at me.  It feels as though it can see how desperately I’m working on myself, how I am really making an effort to exercise and how I am digging in, and it wants to upset the apple cart.  It wants to upset me into being afraid that my positive change is the trigger for the panic…and maybe it is, but only in the sense that this is a protective barrier around the security of the status quo.  It’s a test I have to pass this time.

 

Some Lady

incredible-strange-creatures-1568522Okay.  60 days in.  It was bound to happen.  Fred is on his way.  I feel the physical impulses and urges changing, just overriding my good sense and causing me all sorts of wayward thoughts.  Add on that a day where life at work felt particularly scattery and insecure beyond its usual scattered insecurity and my boss was particularly vulnerable and stressed with me and every empathic tendency I claim just wicked all of that up into my system so that I could offer succor and support and underline my loyalty.

All the while, I’m working on the copywriter angle, and contemplating bugging out when the window re-opens.  I absolutely care…I just need…money.   And to not have the burdens I have.

And so…food.  Today.  Shit.  I didn’t FUCK up.  I just fucked up. Lowercase.  I just said I didn’t care and ate with “abandon.”   Meaning I got a thing of crackers out and ate a bunch of crackers without counting them and then a few handfuls of chocolate chips.  Then I had pasta for dinner with one glass of wine.  Like a maniac.  But it felt for a few minutes like the old ways where shoving it in my mouth blurs any sort of mathematics attached to it.  The little noises, the little yelps that make me sad and nervous, I have to shut those up somehow when I do care.  I just sort of hit a wall.  I think I’ll be mad at myself in the morning when I get on the scale.

I am tracking, right now, as I type, my crappitude because of my stalwart desire to sweep it all away and not track it because it’s not Under.  But it’s still in the position where if I get my ass on that bike, it could be under.  I think I’ve guessed as accurately as I can right now. If I do this, it is going to have to go imperfectly because the bike surely doesn’t burn at the rate it tells me it burns, but I could do it even if it’s 9pm.  I could do something more than nothing.

…..

So, yeah, that happened.  I did get on the bike and I did pedal it until it says I burnt 200 calories.  I did that.  I did the sit-ups.

That feels oddly marvelous and because I was sweaty a bit from actually using these legs of mine, I got in the tub and the ending to the story appeared, magically, in my mind.  One of those Einstein playing the violin situations.

….

Oh, shit, while I’ve been sitting here trying to wrap my brain around reality and back again and figuring out the last fifty words on my post, it’s almost midnight.

Tomorrow is Saturday and that day is mine, free and clear.   I don’t have to give it to anyone else – except go check on the cats at my parents.

The way to get in the groove is to be in it.  Snap your fingers, simple as that.