Tag Archives: Asshole

Choosing My Miserable

fat

Well, it’s been an interesting few days. The battle between me and the Asshole in my head has raged on and on to the point where it’s becoming old news. I’m bloodied and battered but you know what, I’m hanging in there. Yesterday was a good day. I ate clean, no naughties at all and I did two classes last night. Before you worry that you’re about to be dazzled by the light bouncing off my halo, don’t be…Saturday was shit and Sunday wasn’t much better.

So it’s been a rollercoaster, you know? It’s weird, I was off-reservation when I got back from Cuba and I’ve been sailing close to the wind ever since, as well you know but it’s fair to say that things sort of came to a head towards the back end of last week when I had to face the reality of what I was doing. I’d somehow got caught up in this whirlpool of self-sabotage for reasons known only to the voice in my head. I told you he was an asshole.

Anyway, a combination of real-life encouragement from some of my buddies and some proper wisdom and insight from you lot is helping me navigate my head to a calmer place. It was something Margaret said which provided the first reality check, in her thoughts on Friday’s post. She articulated beautifully how that first slip is a really big deal, but when the world doesn’t end the second slip feels less important, and on that sliding scale I’d reached the point where saying fuck it was pretty much part of my daily routine.

It’s a bit like boiling a frog, right? I’m not suggesting you should, but if you were to stick a frog in a pan of boiling water he’d immediately jump out screaming. Stick him in a pan of cool water and slowly turn up the heat, chances are he won’t notice how hot the water is until his legs are cooked. I didn’t notice how hot the water had got, is the long and short of it.

God of Pain provided the second reality check. I was talking to him on Sunday about how hard it’s become all of a sudden. In his usual telling it like it is way, he pointed out that I’ve got just two choices. Hate the journey for a while but stick with it anyway and reach my goals, or abandon the journey and hate the life I will inevitably go back to, and probably myself too just for good measure.

Talk about Hobson’s fucking choice, I mean both of them involve me being in turmoil and I’m miserable either way, right? But not really. Maybe right here and now, in this moment I’m pissed off because I can’t eat crap every day and lose weight. But one year from now when I’m rocking my size 12 skinny jeans I doubt very much that I’ll be pissed off at all.

So I’m sticking with it folks, even if I’m doing it through gritted teeth. I am going to do better because I am not going back to that old life. So here’s the thing. It gets harder to remember how I used to feel when I was at my heaviest. When nothing I wore felt nice, when I was so uncomfortable with a huge downer on myself because I knew I looked like a moose. I kind of felt like I needed a reminder.

Yesterday, I had to ferry my mum around to a few medical appointments, and I dressed in a pair of leggings – every lump and bump was magnified to the tune of at least a hundred, in fact who even knew it was possible for legs to be that lumpy? I’d bought them on-line, and let’s just say they didn’t look like they did on the picture when I put them on, you know? Enough said. They’d never graduated from the ‘fashion mistake but maybe when I’m thinner‘ drawer, well not until yesterday.

I teamed them with a top which is a little bit too snug, good grief it was a total car crash…there was nowhere to tuck my extra one hundred pounds into so it wasn’t on display. Never in a month of Sundays would I E.V.E.R go out looking like that…except yesterday I did. The hospital was so warm and I was sweltering but I didn’t dare take my coat off because I knew what a mess I looked underneath…it was a sharp reminder that I used to feel like that all the time. I haven’t, in a while, and I don’t want to again.

It helped. Yesterday was day one of my season two. And I’m sure it won’t all of a sudden get easier again, but I’ve chosen which miserable I’m going after…I picked the temporary one 🙂

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This Wasn’t Part Of The Plan

fuck-dog

Well, yesterday’s post really struck a chord with you lot, and I’ll tell you what else, it reconfirmed to me that I’m not alone in this journey. I’m not the only one who has an asshole living inside my head and just because I argue with myself about whether I should or shouldn’t go/do/eat/work out it doesn’t make me a freak of nature. I’m normal. It’s irritating but it doesn’t mean the men in white coats need to come and cart me off.

Back in the early days when I first started writing, I remember feeling a bit guilty because my growing band of subscribers weren’t getting much drama out of my journey. I was locked and loaded into that sweet spot, and temptation crumbled to dust once it hit my orbit…it barely even registered in the early days. I ignored naughties of all descriptions whilst I was busy tipping out the contents of my head for examination. Life was easy, you know?

Now it feels like all you get is drama. I’m walking a tightrope and to say I’m wobbling all over the place is an understatement. I felt less isolated and a lot less scared once I’d talked about my post-trek struggle to stay focused because so many of you reached out to say it’s okay…it’s a thing. I felt reassured, but to be honest that’s starting to wear a bit thin now…I’m still wobbling and it’s pissing me right off.

Take yesterday for example – I’d arranged to meet a colleague at the motorway services so I could leave my car there and travel with him to a team meeting. I nipped in to pay for my parking and the lady behind the counter offered me a big bar of chocolate for a pound. As I was shaking my head and saying no, I noticed it was Daim chocolate and my pound was in her till before my head even had time to process the fact that I’d walked out with my parking receipt in one hand and a bar of chocolate in the other.

All the way down to the meeting I convinced myself that I’d offer the chocolate to everyone else and by the time I’d gone around the table there wouldn’t be enough left for it to put a significant dint in my diet. So boys and girls, let’s have a pop quiz.

How many squares of chocolate did my team eat? No Squares. And how many squares of chocolate did I eat? All the fucking squares. I know. That wasn’t in the plan. Neither was the posh fish finger sandwich at the local pub at lunchtime, accompanied by my second lot of cheesy chips in a week. I did have the good grace to go to bed without supper last night but I’m very sure that I weighed more when I went to bed than I did when I woke up yesterday morning. Two steps forward and two steps back again.

The thing is, this time last year, you couldn’t have paid me enough money to make me take a square of chocolate, and I would have faced a firing squad before considering a cheesy chip. I would have happily sat there and watched all my team eat cheesy chips without batting an eyelid, because I was on the road to Skinny Town and nothing was knocking me into the ditch, right? My resolve was cast-iron, rock-solid, and at least ten times more watertight than a duck’s backside. Now..? Now I’m a pushover in the battle for supremacy between me and the asshole in my head…I feel like I’m on the ropes.

And I’m terrified. What if I’ve lost it? I mean I know I’ve lost it momentarily, but what if I can’t find it again? This wasn’t supposed to happen. I can live with the odd bit of drama but for fucks sake there are limits…it’s turning into an almost daily occurrence.

I get lots of mail from people who’ve hit the skids and don’t know how to claw their way back into that sweet spot. I hear you sistahs…I’m right there in a heap with you. We’ll just have to help each other figure this shit out.

I’m not giving up…not in this lifetime. Today’s a new day and anyone who tries to wave a cheesy chip under my nose is going down. That is all 🙂

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Landing On The Wrong Square

snake

I woke up early yesterday, having failed to fool my body into sleeping an extra hour as the clocks did their thing and rebooted ready for the dark winter months. I did however make good use of the extra hour, laying in bed for ages and contemplating the fact that I’ve been back from Cuba for two whole weeks – two fairly shit weeks in the grand scheme of things, with the last week in particular being a truly platinum-plated turd.

My general willingness to remember that I’m not that armchair-hogging food addict any more seems to have disappeared like a fart on a breeze, and I’m doing that thing where I’m refusing to look myself straight in the eye because I’m afraid of what I might see. For the few days leading up to the trek I was acutely aware that I’d taken my foot off the gas and made some dodgy choices, and whilst I was away my food plan went out of the window altogether. Neither of those two things would have been a massive issue. However. The two weeks since I came home have been a dieting car crash.

And you know what, I’d be the first to admit that I’m not very good with sums, but if I do a few quick calculations on the back of a fag packet I can’t avoid the reality of the situation I’m in…this isn’t just a bad few days. In the way that fuck-ups can run away with you like a freight train in a bad movie, this has morphed into a bad month.

I’ve been trying to think of ways in which to position it with myself so it doesn’t sound so bad and the most positive spin I can come up with is that I’m currently in hiatus between season one and season two. Season one was the start of this journey…begin the diet, find a voice, make some friends and build this awesome support forum. Find an adventure requiring focus and commitment, nail the plan and walk towards it as one big posse with the season finale featuring a finish line in Cuba. Season two picks up where season one left off, and it’ll take us right up to the point where the rest of my life can begin in a pair of size twelve skinny jeans.

The thing is, it’s not really a hiatus is it? The word hiatus suggests I’m pressing pause, kind of like a way to gather my thoughts and shape what I’m walking towards. Except that’s not what’s happening here, is it? I’ve fallen out of the naughty tree and I’ve put weight on…I’m struggling with my food plan and my head is refusing to play nicely. There’s a whole sub-story going on off-camera and that’s definitely not what’s supposed to happen when we’re taking a hiatus, at least it never did on Grey’s Anatomy.

It’s more accurate to imagine I’m living in a giant game of snakes and ladders, and right now I’m sliding down the back of the biggest fucking anaconda on the board. You know that one that always lurks right in the middle, and everyone in the game blows on the dice before they roll it when they’re in the general vicinity in the hope that it might prevent them from landing on that square..?

Well, guess who landed on the square. For fuck’s sake.

I didn’t see it coming but the more I reflect on the last few weeks, the more I think perhaps I should have, you know? Think about it. The trek was never supposed to be a thing in its own right…it was always a means to an end, something I signed up for as a way of staying on the path to Skinny Town.

And the fact that I brought it home was always going to be cause for celebration, given the amount of preparation I’d done to get ready for it. My mistake was allowing the Asshole voice to lead me directly to the I can relax now, it’s over! school of thinking, which was never going to end well. I could have prepared better for the fact that that might happen, and been ready for it. Note to self, that will ALWAYS happen because you have an Asshole who lives inside your head. It’s not rocket science, is it?

What I need to do now is figure out how to not let my bad month turn into two bad months, and then three. I can’t – won’t – go there.

First things first. I’m going to go to the Kingdom of Pain every day providing my work schedule allows me to get there…this week it does (although I’m away for the weekend which given the fragility of my food sobriety will throw up a new set of challenges but one step at a time, right?).

I had my eating under control last week between Sunday and Wednesday…it was the latter part of the week where it all went tits up. I was stressed, I couldn’t fit a work-out in and before I knew it the Asshole voice had snuck some all or nothing thinking into the equation…you can’t do THIS so don’t worry about THAT either.

Yesterday was better, in fact it was a good day. I worked hard in my circuit training class yesterday morning, I ate healthily, and I went to bed not having listened to any of the suggestions about popcorn or maltesers which were helpfully put forward by the Asshole voice as I was watching TV last night. Today I’m going to use yesterday as a blueprint and do the same again.

One foot in front of the other, and repeat, right? 🙂

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Cock-A-Doodle-Doo

image

So I wasn’t feeling quite so accomplished by the time dawn broke….walk the route on day one and survive, tick. Get a good night’s kip ready for day two, which if the rumours were to be believed was harder than the day before…epic fail.

It didn’t help that after dispensing antibiotics for my chest infection (the diagnosis of which involved me saying I think I’ve got a chest infection and the lady doctor who was accompanying our trek nodding wisely and saying ok I geev you peels) the group leader had decreed me and my roomie should have the tent nearest to the camp buildings. I suspect when I made it into camp at the end of day one they thought maybe I wouldn’t be able to stagger any further up the field.

And it was fine, you know being near to everything. Except maybe the chicken coop, which was right next door. And when I say next door, I mean had I been so inclined I could have reached under the tent and strangled that fucking cockerel, which set off cock-a-doodle-doing at about 3am. I’d like to say just after I’d fallen asleep, but I’m not entirely sure when that was. I must have fallen asleep, in fact judging by the number of times I woke up in the night I’d clearly been very effective at falling asleep. I don’t really remember the sleeping bits….just the waking up bits.

And every time I did wake up, my body sort of had this sort of Mexican wave of pain vibe going on. Turning over from one position to another with my body in shock from everything I’d thrown at it the day before would’ve been a challenge in itself if I’d been sleeping on a pocket sprung mattress with feather pillows. Sleeping on a ground mat in a two man tent with no pillow and nothing sqishy underneath me except for my own arse magnified every ache and pain several times over.

Still, by the time I crawled out of bed and stretched out my bones, my fellow campers were at various stages of stretching and limbering up after an equally uncomfortable night, and spirits were high. Whilst I’d stayed in camp in the early evening as we’d arrived the day before due to feeling as rough as toast, most of the group had gone on an optional walk out of camp to a waterfall before dinner, and had been caught on the hop when the heavens opened.

Dinner had been a very damp affair but with lots of laughing…the beer was cold and despite the rain we were still all very hot, and euphoric from getting through a really tough day. I wasn’t the only one who’d been a bit shocked at how hard it was, you know?

I’m sure my asshole voice was in very good company that night, I know for a fact that at that point, at least a couple of the others were wondering whether they’d get through the week.

So morning of day two saw the field littered with wet boots and damp clothes in the hope that whilst we breakfasted on more of what we’d affectionately nicknamed prison bread and green beans – yes, really – everything would start to dry out as the heat caught hold of the day.

We were excited. Yesterday we’d walked along jeep tracks, and flirted with the rainforest as we stood at the top of hills and look out across it all. Today…well, today we were going in 😊

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Slowly Slowly Catchee Monkey…

impatience

So I had a bulging mailbag on Friday following my post about getting stuck on the same number, and as with all things diet-related there’s safety in numbers. It was a massive comfort to know it’s not just me, you know? Although I’ve got to say, some of the posse are blessed with far more patience than me. For two weeks now my number hasn’t moved, and I think that’s bad…one of our lot has just four pounds left to lose after shedding almost a hundred, and her number hasn’t budged for five weeks. Christ on a bike, I’d be a basket case if the needle hadn’t moved after five weeks.

Nobody mentions the patience needed in this game do they? Determination, yes…willpower, yes…motivation, yes that too. All those qualities get bandied about as the cornerstone of dieting success and when I’m in the sweet spot I have all of those in abundance. Patience, not so much so. Impatience is one of my things in fact. I honestly think it came free with my vagina in sort of a buy one get one free kind of deal…I’m just not very good at waiting. For anything.

And the thing is, it’s when impatience turns to frustration that my Asshole voice sits up and starts rattling his chains. I’m dangerously close to the edge, so I spent a chunk of time this weekend scouring the world wide web for as many perspectives on weight-loss plateaus as possible. I figured if I can at least understand why my needle isn’t moving, it might help.

According to her website, Jillian Michaels (who I’ve often observed from the comfort of my big fat leather recliner whooping ass on The Biggest Loser as I vaporised a family bag of cheese balls) reckons that a weight loss plateau will typically last for around three weeks. Which made me feel a bit better, I mean she’s da man, right? Professor of making fat folk fit strong and skinny. Except then she went on to say that in her experience, a plateau usually means that you’re not paying enough attention to what you’re doing.

Which pissed me off a bit, I’m not going to lie. It kind of feels like she’s saying I’m not trying hard enough, but I shit you not I am consumed with trying. I have never worked this hard in my entire life. Mainly down to the fact that Cuba and its mountain range is now less than four months away and I’ve still got the equivalent of two arses inside my pants.

I’ll give you yesterday morning as an example…I went for the double whammy again, circuit training followed by boxing. Three quarters of the way through the circuit training as I got to the second set of one of the kettle bell exercises that nearly wipes me out, I was so tempted to feign some kind of cardiac arrest to get out of doing it. My shoulder was hurting, my chest felt like it was going to explode and it took every bit of backbone I could summon to keep going. But I did keep going. I turn up and work hard every day…trust me, even if I wasn’t a fully-paid-up wuss I couldn’t work any harder than I am.

But I did take a long hard look at what I’m eating, just in case. And looking back over three weeks’ worth of food plans, although I’m following the principles that God of Pain outlined and I’m eating within points, I have to admit it’s a bit samey. I’m sticking to the same things, at roughly the same time of day. There’s a definite order, which is something I’ve worked really hard to achieve because it goes against my nature, but it seems that routine in what you eat is a no-no.

Loads of you told me about switching up my food budget for a couple days and then reducing my points back down – apparently it’s a thing, and Jillian Michaels offers the same advice. So I’m going to give that a whirl this week. I’m also going to drink more water…yeah, that old chestnut. I know I always say that, but in practice I seem to run out of steam after a day or two, and I find myself back in the place where I really only actually drink water whilst I’m in the fitness studio sweating my cahoonies off. Outside of that, I don’t touch it, even though I know I should.

So this week I’m going to drink like a camel, and fool my body with an eating plan that is less predictable. Whatever not takes, right? I refuse to be passive whilst the bitch in the bathroom decides whether she’ll grant me a lower number. I hold the power, not her and I’ve so got this 🙂

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