The Great Experiment

Its been nearly a month since I last updated, and I am down a total of 17 pounds. The going has been much slower in the past month, and I won't claim that isn't discouraging, but I am trying not to be too hard on myself. I haven't 'cheated' (I hate fetishizing food that way, an imbuing it with a moral action), and I've been drinking water and exercising and eating vegetables and lean protein with the dedication of a born-again Christian.

My brain is entirely lodged in Weight Loss land now, and I think I'm annoying those around me. I've made a conscious effort not to talk about it any more, or read my magazines (Health, Prevention, etc) in front of anyone because this level of dedication and interest in something like weight comes across as being shallow. I find that idea a trifle amusing. It's not like the time I take to think about my health is time I would be dedicating to cancer research, or the pondering of the great philosophical questions. What is the meaning of life? Lately, the meaning of life is what percentage of fat/protein/carbs I ate today.

I am struggling this week with the slowness of my weight loss. In fact, on Sunday night I took myself out for pasta and bread and dessert at a local restaurant, hoping to shock my metabolism into some movement. I was up 2 pounds the next morning, and went calmly back to my breakfast of Morningstar Farm sausage and boiled eggs and cucumber/tomato salad. I've vowed not to step on the scale again until Thursday morning, and in the meantime have cut out artificial sweetners and most caffeine. I'm drinking enough water to float the Titanic.

I'm going to give myself props for getting a handle on the emotional eating though. Sunday night's dinner was a decision, not a slip, or naughty behavior, and I can't remember ever feeling like I have this much control over food in my life. I came home from dinner that night with my leftovers (leftovers!!) in a box, and threw it directly into the trashcan, thinking "it is just a bite of pasta." Food has never been a "just" for me. Food had meaning. It had a language of its own that only I understood. And now, for the first time, I am removed enough from that country of emotional dependence to see it for what it really is - just ... food.

I wonder how much of this new attitude has to do with my anti-depression meds? All of it, most likely. And if so, how many years might I have wasted feeling alone and scared and sad, when all of it could have been controlled by a small white pill? Until three months ago I never would have imagined I could be depressed. Depression meant sitting around staring at the walls, or contemplating suicide. Or so I thought. I didn't think Lack of Joy meant you might be depressed. How could I be? I liked my life. I had a job I liked, a small stone house I adored, and a wonderful family. So I couldn't be depressed.

Ha! Live and learn.

I'm going to be updating more here, because I feel better when I address some of the machinations of my head on 'paper'.

Up next - OA and my reading list of compulsive overeater memoirs.