- not quite as catchy as Tony Bennett's number but it means something to me. Four weeks ago, almost to the minute, daughter and I left for a five-day excursion along the north Devonshire coast down to her grandparents' place in Cornwall. We spent a perfect summer's day on the huge expanse of sand at Woolacombe, a gusty, grey late-autumn's day on the lovely beaches at Bude and a couple of days in and around Tintagel on the north Cornwall coast. It was brilliant; we had fantastic daddy/daughter time, it was great to spend time with daughter's grandparents and I got my biggest walk ever under my belt.
I'd made a semi-conscious decision to eat what I fancied on the holiday. I'd get my healthy eating back on track when I got home, right?
Wrong. Since that little splurge during our holiday my willpower has deserted me. It wasn't even willpower that kept me going in the first place, more a desire to do the best for my body and lose weight to acquire the body-confidence I've never really had. I got flashes of that during my first stint of healthy eating when I could see the weight dropping off and people were showering me with compliments. Man, that felt amazing. So where did my resolve to lose all my weight go? Why did my strict routine fall apart?
I'm tempted to say that deciding to have a 'holiday' from the diet - and the abstinence from alcohol - was the turning point, but really it started when I came home. I left daughter with her grandparents for a week and had the house all to myself. It was kind of nice, for a change. A little freedom, a bit of Playstation-in-your-pants action. Unfortunately, that freedom helped me move away from positive routine and made me less accountable for my actions, and I ate a bunch of crap that week.
What that boils down to is that I worry about what other people think of me when I eat rubbish. I care what daughter thinks when I stuff my face with crap. The question here is: why don't I care what I think?
I hate the fact that I have a soft spot for huge bags of crisps. I despise the idea of filling myself up with greasy, spicy food because my stomach will be ruined the following day. I beat myself up when I look back and realise I've hoofed a bag of peanuts, 100g of crisps and two litres of cider the previous evening. "Wanker", I called myself, the morning after that. But I don't listen to myself, the little voice that tries to stop me when I'm heading down the crisp aisle, that holds me back when reaching for the cider.
It's like there's three voices: one egging me on to 'treat' myself, one trying to convince me not to, and the other berating me for being a fat bastard. One devil, one angel, one nagger. Me in the middle, feeling all kinds of emotions: a sneaky, childish satisfaction that I'm eating taboo foods or drinking alcohol I'd promised myself I wouldn't; a self-loathing for not having the control to stick to what I know is best; a fear that I'm doing myself harm and slipping into obesity and heart disease... These emotions and more in a boiling mass of positivity and negativity, swirling around my head each time I indulge my inner fatty.
Actually, maybe they're all the same voice, the voice that encourages me to eat crap and berates me for doing so. Here, eat this, it's great, you horrible fatty, it'll burn your insides, it tastes so good, early grave. A cycle of elation and satisfaction coupled with fear, punishment and damage.
Punishment. A strong word, and one I've used many times in the past. Often, when walking and I'm getting twinges in my legs because I've covered twelve miles in four hours, the word 'punishment' pops into my head for no discernable reason. I tell myself it's 'punishing' not 'punishment' but I'm not sure I believe it.
During my therapy a couple of years ago we did a lot of work on building my self-esteem and constructing the belief that I was worthy of praise, love and responsibility. I really felt like it worked, because I care much more for myself than I did then. But I'm coming to realise that there's much more work to be done here, because it certainly feels like I'm punishing myself for something. I've just had an image flick through my mind of what that is, and I'll blog about it later when I've given it some thought. For now, though, I've realised something very important:
I deserve better
As a footnote, and the reason for this post: despite many failures and very little walking over the past three weeks, I weighed myself this morning and I haven't put on any weight! I must be doing something right!
No comments:
Post a Comment