I think that it is interesting that this die-ting (I love that, YP, thanks!) somehow feels different. My mom was morbidly obese, and it limited her life in the end. To see myself beginning to look like her just made me feel as if I were heading down that same path. While I am not morbidly obese, those extra pounds bothered me.
I am still sticking to that 1200 calorie diet. It does not feel all that restrictive to me in actuality. I have my 6 oz. of homemade yogurt in the morning with 1/3 cup of granola and a cup of coffee. I am surprised that this 'holds me', but it does. I have a choice of 3 go-to meals for lunch that are all less than 300 calories. I drink 20 0z. of water. That holds me until supper. I fix Tim a regular supper, and usually take whatever meat we are having and chop it up and add it to a salad. I drink another 20 oz of water. If I feel like eating a meal, I do but just give myself very limited portions. It's easier to stick to the salads though, because I do love salad.
I do not eat between meals at all, aside from the birthday cake I had for William's birthday last week.
It's been nearly three weeks now. I have lost 7 lbs, although the official weigh in isn't until Monday morning. Out of curiosity, I stepped on the scales early and surprised myself. I suppose it won't feel like a real achievement until I reach a double digit loss though.
I do not feel deprived. As a matter of fact at this very moment, to my right, on a table in the office, there is a box of chocolates from Valentine's Day. I look at it sometimes. I know that I could have one if I wanted it. The idea flits through my mind and I look at the box and make a conscious decision that I don't actually want it which is very interesting to me. I haven't had even one.
What I see is my mom, unhappy, in her recliner, angry with the world. Angry with me. Her favorite place to go was the all you can eat Chinese buffet in town. It was hard for her to eat supper at home alone, so she went out to eat a lot. Looking back on it, there was no right way to handle the situation. Me, being me, tried to anyway. She often wanted us all to go out to eat with her, and I said, "Mom, I just worry about you," and that was the truth. I did. I suggested some alternative ideas.
This went over like the proverbial lead balloon.
My mother angrily demanded to know why I was worried about her. I told her. I told that I worried about her health, about her increasingly difficult time getting around, about her bad knees, about the fact that she wasn't a candidate for surgery to get anything done with those knees. About her heart. After all those years of tailoring her life around my father's rules, it was her chance to decide what SHE wanted and she was physically unable to. It bothered me.
Her response was extremely emotional, and it was angry, and it was bitter. In her mind, I was suggesting that her life with my father was less than perfect. In her mind, I was judging her weight. She took it as just another sign that I hated her and was disgusted by her. She felt that I was unkind.
In hindsight, a conversation like that requires trust. We did not have that. A smarter person would have realized that before the screaming and crying started. So....there it is. I am hella smart after the fact. In the midst of things, not so much, maybe.
My mom is gone now. She's been gone for almost 10 years. She went to her grave with that anger at me intact. I never wanted to fight with her and that episode was just one incident among a long line of incidents. It wasn't the first incident, It wasn't the last incident. It had gone on for years. No matter what was in my heart, she always certain in hers that my motivations were always malicious and cruel and spiteful.
So here I am, looking in the mirror and seeing glimpses of my mother. It was a galvanizing moment. I looked squarely at the fact that I've gained weight since I quit work, since this pandemic, since my own torn meniscus has kept me less active than usual.
Looking at it squarely, I had to make a conscious decision about how I was going to handle it.
Become angry and defensive? No.
Accept it and allow it to define the parameters of my life? No.
Isolate myself and refuse to acknowledge it? No.
You know, I quit smoking 20 years ago after watching my father die of lung cancer. I made the decision that I wanted to spare my children the helpless agony of watching me suffocate slowly over the course of 3 days, and not. be. able. to. do. one. thing to ease that struggle. It was excruciating.
Although I had quit smoking many times in my life, I walked away from that hospital room and I quit again. This time it felt different. I lost all craving for a cigarette. It never came back. The smell of smoke made me actually sick. I saw my father's face over and over again, a big man, panicked and crying out because he could not get enough oxygen into his lungs.
I lost the desire for a cigarette, There was no withdrawal from the nicotine. I was done, and I knew that. There was no going back.
20 years later, it seems to have happened again, but this time it is food.
It feels different and I can't explain it, but it will be three weeks on Monday and I have lost 7 pounds.