Here’s the thing. I am not happy with myself. I’m totally discouraged. I keep rationalizing, “I haven’t slipped enough to totally hate myself. I haven’t gone so far that I am in-bed-with-the-covers-over-my-head-all-day-long depressed. I haven’t stopped going out in public and I’m certainly not suicidal. But, crap. I’m really, really, really down on myself.
I just don’t know how I can continue to let myself down like this. I can work like crazy-mad to get to a place I totally adore. TOTALLY ADORE! I can love myself! Feel confident! Feel awesome in my own 60-year-old skin! I can appreciate myself and where I am in my life! I can take on any situation and solve problems! I can glance in the mirror without wanting to slap myself or barf! I can do all that! Buy new clothes, exercise, love everyone around me, try to serve them the way the Lord would have me — see the pattern? Life is a MAY zing!!!!!
And in a matter of days and circumstances . . . I throw it all away. I toss it like a used tissue in the waste basket. Like an apple core or an orange rind . . . out the window . . . on the side of the road. Never to be thought of again. I give away what I worked so hard for. I neglect myself and don’t acknowledge my value. My [hard-sought] happiness! Gone! And I keep lying to myself about it and pretend I can get back there with a few days of hcg or some x-lax or a starvation day. NOT! Doesn’t work that way! I’ve actually let my mind go to a very dark place and consider throwing up everything I’ve eaten. I’ll have a ‘good’ day, followed by three or four really, really bad days. I’ll eat Simply Naked pita chips — a whole bag — that has 140 calories for ten chips. A bag that has 34 servings which totals 4730 calories. Yah! I can do that in one sitting! Or I’ll eat an entire carton of Moose Tracks in the middle of the night or a pound of cheddar. Or I’ll eat an entire box of hubbie’s Little Debbie’s, which, when I think about it too long, makes me want to just commit myself to the the Evanston State Hospital, because Little Debbie’s is total crap. It’s a box of carcinogenic chocolate-coated plastic! And for some reason, a straight jacket seems appropriate!
Thus . . . 151 pounds. a.g.a.i.n!
Or, I turn it inside myself and go to all the places I’ve been in my life. I go to darkness and horror and pain and guilt and grief and hate and rape and failure and incest and bulimia and stillborn and disfellowship and fat and ugly and stupid and unworthy and mean and miserable.
So, you can see it’s dang hard to get up and get going in a positive direction when I get to that place.
But, every single morning I try.
Every single morning I say to myself before I even get out of bed, “Come on girl. We can do this. It’s a brand new day. We can eat healthy and exercise and keep control and be happy again.” I actually talk to myself like there are two us us — not just one — working on me. I keep myself company . . . because I shut everyone else out.
Sick. I know.
But, having said all that, it IS a new day. A brand new day. It’s 8 a.m. I’ve weighed, blogged, showered, cleaned, prepared. And I’m scared to death that I will let myself down again. Not just a little let down. I’m pretty sure I’ll just keep following the current pattern of blowing it. And then somebody calls. Mikelle. Tracy. Stephen. Scott. Annesley. And I have to make myself sound fine. I have to make myself sound happy.
If I could just get through one day.