And Then, Suddenly, It's About the Weight

Day 40 here but it doesn't feel like it. My experience of my 12-step program is a toss-up between the food, the abstinence & the weight loss. It's supposed to be about the abstinence & most of this God-granted spell has been. Then, Monday, a friend took a picture of me.

& don't you DARE say "What a great smile". I look like a no-neck Stay-Puff Woman. All the days and all the pounds were suddenly for naught as I looked at the wattle hanging off that stranger's face.

Whomp! I'm in how-long-till-I-can-fit land, close allies with how-much-will-I-weigh-when-I-see-so-and-so. It goes from, "Gee, I've lost at least 18 pounds" to "I have just under a hundred pounds to lose." Another ally: "I can do without my fruit and grain at breakfast."

I had a slip last night, which was preventable. I had corned beef in the crock pot and it smelled wonderful. I was also waiting for Go-Geek-Go to come and do things to my computer. I waited. I waited. My stomach growled. He should be here any time. I waited. I felt weak with hunger. Daisy cottoned on to my nervousness and began barking every time the building's front door opened. I waited. At 7.30 he called. He'd taken the wrong street name down & was somewhere on 6th Street in Park Slope. We decided to get together this weekend & I was left bored, with no work done, cabbage that had to be added to the crock, and I was starving By the time I ate, I was on the verge of being out of control. I ate too much. and woke up this morning in that remorse we all know too well.

I had missed part of breakfast yesterday because I was late for the dogs. When I weighed my corned beef for lunch just now, I realized I may not have eaten as much as I thought I did. I did my usual four or five miles yesterday. It's not that big a deal.

But it is. It is because that's not how one eats on my food plan. I could have had a cup of yogurt and a fruit to tide me over until the work was done and I could have dinner. But I didn't. I blurred lines yesterday and I don't like it.

That was AFTER I uploaded the photos my friend took of me. Coincidence? I'm not sure.

I had a good reminder of what I am this morning, however. If you remember, I compare my compulsion to my tender feet: they just are, and either I tend to them or I walk around in pain.

Yesterday, my feet were killing me. To avoid stepping on the balls of my feet, I contorted myself until my lower back and a ham string were also out of whack. I'd shaved my feet less than a week ago so I was pretending it wasn't the callouses on my corns. Like, what's the big deal? My callouses had thickened more quickly than usual and I was in pain. Still, all day, denial.

I hobbled behind Daisy at 7.30 this morning, wincing from my hamstring and my feet. "This is STUPID," I thought. I desperately needed some groceries but they became less a priority than running a tub of hot water, soaking my feet, putting in a brand new razor blade and shaving the callouses. 98% of the problem was solved.

Just as having had an approved snack last night would have almost certainly prevented too much dinner.

I had an email from a colleague this afternoon about how she can't lose weight at this time. I've been reporting my weight losses to her because she's part of the AFG publication team. I wrote back that she would when she was ready & that I'd done this when I was ready.

I also wanted her not to use my current success against herself. I've felt this when friends wre losing weight and I was gaining. And I wanted her to know that for the big pay-offs of my food plan, it's hard work. It's shopping and preparing. It's communicating with my sponsor. It's writing. It's meetings. It's step work and praying. I'm only a C 12-stepper but this is a program that demands work that is inconvenient and hard to fit in. I don't recommend it unless someone can put it at the very center of their lives.

So, danger averted. I didn't binge. I would not look better if I'd weighed my meat last night. Everything takes time. I've done well by dogs so far today & God's in his heaven. No scale for a couple of days. I want to enjoy my jammies that now fit and fit comfortably, and the jeans I wouldn't have dared put on a month ago. I want this day to be Enough and Just Right.

Woman Seeks God

The second step of the twelve is "Came to believe a power greater than myself could restore me to sanity". This step means finding a god one can work with. I've done various treatment of God but this time around I decided to place a personal ad on Craig's List under Missed Connections. Fifteen hours later, I haven't received a response, but it was a really interesting & revealing exercise because a) I had to sell myself, b) in essence, I asked God for a life. Should he be willing to give me one, of course the only possible reciprocity is to {gulp} give mine to him.

As goofy as all this sounds, I'm kind of moved by what I've done.

***

Seeks God – female – 52 – Brooklyn

Me: female, tall, zaftig but losing weight; dark hair graying; navy blue eyes; best smile; great voice. Fabulous sense of humor, talented & successful writer, Labrador/reading/movie/ballet-loving, earnest. I give the best presents & always remember birthdays. I have enough money to live moderately. I love my parents and my family, and they love me back, even though I confuse the bejesus out of them. Dogs like me. I have a lot of friends but none locally who will motivate me to get out & do stuff. I like tchotchkes, especially things that remind me of my childhood, & tend to buy too many books, movies, music & Barbie dolls. Very passionate. Prefer mountains to the ocean & want a hiking-camping companion.

You: beats me but my Catholic childhood tends toward male. Tall, strong, magical, warm eyes, best smile, great voice. You must have the perfect sense of humor that also accommodates mine, be as rich as, well, God. Inspire me to write & relieve my fear of it. Give me best presents & remember my birthday -- especially that I don't feel 52 & that it's a sore day for a kid who is adopted & feels congenitally unwantable. You must make me feel wanted, necessary & loved at all times & so well that I will return same. Be my best friend & teach me how to have fun. Suggest a movie or massage or season tickets at NYCB & I'm there. Indulge my weaknesses but not my dis-eases. Of the latter, you must slowly but certainly relieve me. You are passionate about all things, worlds, people, plants, animals & space dust, but you are most passionate about me & will teach me how to use & enjoy my passions. Help me plan & go with me to the Cascades, Fatima, the Rockies, Prague, Ireland, Yorkshire, Cambodia, Venice, Budapest, Krakow, Bath, Nova Scotia, Gettysburg, Transylvania & New Orleans. Be so much fun & so into me that I forget my jealousies, lost opportunities, vanished friends, the dead, the men I still have a sore spot for. Shield me from insults, fear, giving too much when I have too little to give. Hand me energy drinks when I need them and read me to sleep at night.

Willing to relocate -- you must be as well.

***

The code I had to type in to publish was, interestingly, “go Dolores” – Dolores means “sadness”.

***

I must add that I had this brain wave during a melanch0ly dog walk after two days of living someone else's obsessions for a good cause. I will have failed to accomplish what she wanted, which was to get a dog a home instead of back to the shelter. I was walking with all my own adoption issues, praying for the dog, feeling extremely lonely & abandoned to the inevitable flack that comes with writing for brooklynheightsblog.com.

At the end of the long block that these thoughts & feelings filled, Daisy began to play tug-of-war with her leash, which drives me crazy & very dangerous. I felt too weak to hang on to the leash & I stumbled slightly. She immediately let go & poked her head between my legs in what we call the tunnel-of-love, in which she threads through my legs for a butt rub. She was very concerned about that stumble (she gets hysterical when I actually fall).

We met A. outside my house & chatted about what's going on with her & with this dog. At the end of the conversation she reached out & rubbed my arm in what I can only describe as a gesture of warmth. "I needed that," I said. "I know," she answered.

God is in the small things.

Day 37 = 5 weeks. I think 5 weeks sounds better that 37 days.

Some Things

Bank Mergers
My bank, which had free everything but wasn't the most stable institution in the world, merged with a Big Bank last year. This has created some inconvenience for local customers because we've had to re-configure our ATM cards in order to transfer money between accounts and can only make deposits to a human teller.

This is a problem for people like me who have a hard time getting to the bank during working hours. I've tried taking a dog with me but each one I've experimented with has not at all liked the revolving doors and one was scared of the fancy mosaic tile floors.

& fancy the bank is! I'm not an expert on architecture but I think it must be art deco, judging from the chandeliers. I've never banked anywhere with chandeliers.

This is what I find hilarious about it, however, and if I was that bank's nibs, I would hang large meaningless posters or paintings over them.

Engraved high above the north door:

Society is built upon trust and trust upon
confidence in one another's integrity.

Tell that to Congress and the A.I.G. executives who are willing to give back half their bonuses which would still be 6% of the bail-out they've received so far.

Over the south door:

Commerce defies every wind, outrides every
tempest and invades every zone.

Anyone want to pass that on to the line workers in Detroit?

The bank, whether Victorian, Edwardian or Art Deco, was obviously built in the days when the United States was Young. It does not feel Young these days.

Why Seattle?

As many of you know, I was born and raised in Western Montana. My life as a New Yorker has ceased to exist and I am increasing irked by the tininess of my apartment, the entitlement of Brooklyn Heightsers walking down the street and my loneliness. Lately it seems like every walk I do with the dogs reveals yet another hole in the pavement or sidewalks, as though Brooklyn in breaking up.

I want to move West again. I want to be near my family. My hometown, despite being a college town, is too small for me and my ghosts. There isn't another town in Montana I would want to live in and I realize that I probably wouldn't be happy unless I'm in a city. That pretty much gives me Portland, OR, or Seattle. I have more friends in Seattle and more close relatives at hand than I do in Portland, and as a compulsive overeater I find myself to be a burden, to other and to me. I feel better thinking my neediness will be spread around.

Either city is fabulous but Seattle feels homier, possibly because I've lived there before. I want an easier life where a dollar will go a little farther than it does in New York and where Daisy and I will have a chance to get out in the woods and lakes on a regular basis.

When I first started to lose weight The First Time, I had those three dreams: to be thin, to fall mutually and sanely in love, and to publish a book. Love is not under my province, but I got the other two. And it was part of my downfall. I might have wanted stuff but I had no dreams. Seattle and the novel I'm working on are the first dreams I've had in all these years. They are part of my motivation for abstinence, working, waking up.

Eleven years ago I didn't know that I need a dream to keep me going. I'm so fucking relieved to have some again that it's like being able to breathe clearly.

Did I mention Seattle is a coffee-drinker's paradise?

More of the Magic of Abstinence

Day 34. I bought a digital scale because my eyesight isn't good enough to distinguish what's going on with those vague two-pound increments. 250 this morning, just so you all know. I'm going to replace the plastic tab over the lithium batteries, wrap it up and put it away. My sponsor and I have agreed I'll weigh once a month, although she hasn't told me when that month starts...So I can have a little more insanity until she lays down the Scale Law.

I'm waking up more consistently at 7 a.m., despite what kind of day I had before. I bought an HDTV and new VCR/DVD unit because mine were really really dead. I've been loving watching a movie in bed at night. I actually have the attention span to do it for some reason. Abstinence often makes me hyper but I seem able to give in to my new toy.

It's a 22"-screen, by the way. We are NOT talking home theater here.

I've been busy with dogs and find myself unable to think ahead to what big thing I can cook and live on. It's enough that I get food in the house for a day or two right now. I'm living on salads for two meals a day for the time being. Sesame seed oil at noon, olive oil at night.

I'm dying to have one day truly off from dogs and cats. That could happen the first weekend in April. But my busy-ness is paying my state taxes for 2008. I try to keep that in mind.

Just some things. That's all.

30 Days

Today is Day Thirty of no flour, no sugar, weighing & measuring my meals. There are some things on my mind that I want to share about it & there is the little matter of my step work, which might be easier to do as a blog, in bits, as things come to me.

The first step of the twelve is that "We admitted we were powerless over ___ and that our lives had become unmanageable."

I learned that after having something like four or five days clean without hooking up with my sponsor or going to meetings. Late Friday night I got a call on my cell phone. I had to heave myself up out of bed & go through the machinations of retrieving the message in order to shut the damn thing up. It was a call from one of my clients about a missing pair of earrings. Had I seen them? No, sorry. I went back to bed & the phone rang again. She had found them. I'd been taking care of her dogs for over a week, it was finally over, I'd gotten to bed abstinent & then it wasn't over. I ripped off my nightgown, put on my clothes & went to the deli.

The next morning I found I'd fallen asleep in my shirt & that my nightgown was inside out, such was the hurry I was in.

I got myself to the meeting the next morning & the first person I saw stood up, hugged me & I sobbed, "I can't stop." My sponsor came in late & headed straight for me & again I sobbed very quietly, "I'm in so much trouble."

The inside-out nightgown -- the couple of clean days over in 20 minutes because of a phone call -- the days before I'd stopped bingeing when I took my Entenmann boxes over to the dogs' apartment building to put them in that recycling rather than my own building's...

Yup. Got that.

In many ways, however, I think it becomes apparent how unmanageable life is only when you stop using. The irritations I've written about lately are evidence of this. One's emotions wake up & there's no guarantee that they're going to be the pretty ones. I think the first time I had 30 clean days together I felt excited & curious. The last couple of times I hoped I'd lose a lot of weight & get to qualify (speak for 15 minutes or so) at a meeting & be a star again.

This time...

I dunno. I'm not excited about it. I'm not terribly hopeful about getting thin or being a star after so many resounding disasters. I feel...I feel like I'm showing up, that being abstinent is being on time, having my homework done, being prepared. It's not about being a rule follower as it is a feeling that this is the right way to live. & I WANT this abstinence. For thirty days I have not looked for a way to not have my cake & eat it too.

I also feel like every day of abstinence prepares me for the next hurdles -- publishing Angry Fat Girls, moving to Seattle. Part of it is being thinner but part of it is that I've smooshed abstinence together with walking toward my future. Every day I ask myself, what have I done to move to Seattle? There are a finite number of answers. I made some extra money. I reinforced a friendship there. I got rid of something I won't have to move. I wrote words someone might pay me for. I was abstinent.

I have weary days on which I don't have the wherewithal, after battling my dogs or for my dogs, after screaming at the agony of whatever is agonizing, after a snowstorm, to write or weed through or whatever.

But I was abstinent.

Bottom line.

So while I've been cranky & weepy & sometimes downright foul in these 30 days, wondering exactly where these mood swings come from, I've been able to say each day that I've taken a step toward the Puget Sound.

Which is one [small] aspect of getting some control in my life even when my emotions are anything but orderly.

Another thing about these 30 days that has given me a sense at least of method in action is the work of being able to be abstinent -- the shopping, the chopping, the steaming, the crockpotting. I have a sense of accomplishment when I put a bag of salad I chopped in my tiny refrigerator, & a sense of what I'll be eating next.

I'd forgotten what it was like to be very hungry & have all kinds of chatter in my head about what to eat, only to have all those voice stop when I walk myself through an abstinent meal.

My cravings aren't gone but they're under better control than they've been in a long time.

I WANT WANT WANT this abstinence. I want it. I need it. I deserve it. I will yank it out of God's hands if I have to.

But that's a whole `nother step.

Oh, yeah: I'm fuzzy on how much weight I've lost but it's somewhere between 8 - 18 pounds. My favorite jammies, which I was afraid to put on, are loose & comfy again.

Let It Go! + Curry Recipe

It's no wonder I struggle with weight: I can't let ANYTHING go.

Yesterday morning I took Daisy over to Cadman Plaza, one of the nice things about Brooklyn Heights. It stretches on forever & has an astroturf playing field, a running path, lanes of lime trees, nice plantings in warmer weather. I took up a position in a lane of trees -- off the turf, as required, off the running path, as is polite. She began to bark wildly. A father with two young kids, a toddler + razor bike, a post-toddler riding his bike on the astro, was standing some twenty feet away. The boy hopped off his bike & started to bawl at Daisy's barking & running. A ricochet off a tree sent her scuttling under a bench to retrieve it, at which the boy began to scream.

"Would you leash your dog, please?" the father said. "This isn't a dog run."

"Actually, it is a dog run," I told him. "From 9 - 9, dogs are allowed off leash."

"Where does it say THAT???" he demanded.

"Just read the signs."

It was over that quickly & if he looked around that moment he would have seen twenty dogs flittering around the park. I did not sayy, "Just read the signs that include a rule against bikes on the astroturf," for which I'm both mildly sorry & mildly proud of myself. I didn't swear or raise my voice. But I wanted to stuff my correctness down his throat. I wanted to tell everyone I saw what had happened so they could tell me how right I was & how bad he was. I wanted him to apologize.

If you want to hate people, walk a dog.

Or live in a thin-walled studio apartment next to the Loathsomes, neighbors who scream about FDR while playing Trivial Pursuit at 11 p.m. on a Friday until I got so frustrated I yelled out, "Hold it down." My bell rang, Daisy went into a barking frenzy, I stumbled up out of bed & my neighbor was at the door, which Daisy slipped through & tried to go join their party. "Are we being too loud?" "Yeah." "Sorry." "Sounds like Trivial Pursuit?" "Yeah," he laughed.

I got what I wanted -- a reasonable decibel level -- but did he HAVE to rile Daisy up, haul me out of bed in my flannel nightgown, & thus waken me further & make a nuisance out of my previously peacefully sleeping dog?

The point here is that I am still seething over this shit. I want to let it go. So what? I mean, I have writing to do here, a recipe to share, a desk to dismantle, laundry to do.

Early abstinence, my friends, is a time of housekeeping. I struggle to get as much of the food as I need during the week into the house & prepared so that tiredness doesn't send me to the deli or dialing for expensive take-out, & it's a nervy, prickly time when lovely character defects show up.

This is why I do not play competitive games or take IQ quizes on Facebook. I want to be right, & that means someone else must be wrong.

Ick.

*

OK. Moosewood's Sundays at Moosewood Restaurant Eggplant, Red Pepper & Spinach Curry, adopted for my food plan (low on oil) & the crock pot.

Place 1 medium eggplant, cut into 1" cubes into a colander. Sprinkle with salt & give it a swish every once in a while in the next 20 - 30 minutes to sweat out the water.

Into the crockpot goes:

1 large Spanish onion, chopped
2 red bells peppers, cut into 1" cubes
1 T grated peeled ginger root (or powdered ginger, if lazy or budgeting weirdly)
1 T ground cumin seeds
2 t ground coriander seeds
1/2 t turmeric
1/8 t cayenne
1/8 t cinnamon
1 T s/f peach jam or applesauce

Rinse the eggplant and shake the water off. Add to crock & cook on low for 6 - 12 hours.

A half-hour to an hour before you're going to eat, add:

10 oz. spinach
1 T lemon juice.

You really want to wilt the spinach more than you want to cook it. When I made a second batch, I added about four carrots I decided I didn't want to live here any more. You always take liberties.

The spices have the following properties:

Ginger: helps digest high fat foods & breaks down protein, making it good for digestion which is probably why it is helpful in controlling nausea, morning & motion sickness. It is also thought to be good against arthritis.

Cumin: good for dementia-fighting power.

Coriander: along with cinnamon, it help regulate blood sugar. It also fights headaches & depression.

Cinnamon: see coriander above for its obesity & diabetic-fighting pwers. It is dense in manganese, iron, calcium, Vitamins A & C, & fiber, which protects the heart and colon. The calcium and fiber bind to bile salts, which neutralizes the salts' damage to the colon. When the body has to replace the bile salts, it has to break down cholesterol. It is a strong antiseptic with microbial and clotting fighting powers. It demonstratively improves cognitive functioning and motor speed and is an immune booster.

Turmeric: a immune booster and anti-inflammatory, it is cancer fighter and also reduces the chance of gallstones.

Cayenne: a source of Vitamin A & a strong appetite suppressant/satiety-booster. It's also a depression-fighter, stimulates circulation & the digestive process. It not only makes you feel full faster but helps burn calories.

Cardamom: good for heartburn & stomach problems, which may be one reason why curries are survivable.

So the moral of this post is -- you tell me.

Breathing

Yesterday was a bearcat. I knew it by 10 a.m. when Daisy and I walked the mile down to pick up Henry. As we approached the corner, crowded with garbage bags and early morning worker bees, I saw a Welsh springer spaniel approaching.

"Don't be scared," I soothed Daisy as I shortened her leash. "It's OK, you don't have to be scared." She lunged anyway & the owner of the spaniel yelled at me about controlling my dor or what is the matter with her or some damn thing. He'd heard me talking to her about being scared & made no attempt to sidestep us or simply ignore the lunge. "I'm sorry," I called over my shoulder as I struggled to get Daisy away from a bag full of bread someone had dumped on the sidewalk, "I'm doing the best I can."

But I broke down in tears by the time I turned the corner, leashed her & went back to pick up the 20 rolls that had spilled all over the place. I cried intermittently the mile and a half to Hero's house, although by then it wasn't about being yelled at. I was crying because I lost six years to compulsive eating, & 42 years before that. I was crying because it's Not Fair that God gave me this disease of addiction and of depression as well.

I did a smart thing when I got home. I turned off my computer, stuck the DVD of the first half of the first season of 30 Roc in my new thingie, sat down with Daisy curled up against me & disappeared into this OK sit-com.

A good crying jag must release some hormone, one that leaves one limp for the day. I was exhausted by 11.30 a.m.

That was the Pity-Me part of this post.

I must now say a couple of things that directly attack my right to self-pity.

The first is that I am feeling every which way at any given time (although yesterday just left me depleted). I'm not medicating with food. I'm walking through my break-up with my lover. I have no words for how fiercely I WANT this abstinence. I WANT it. I WANT it. But breaking up is still hard to do.

The second is that I was walking my three-mile morning walk without Naprosin or any other pain medication. I've lost enough weight to be more pain-free than I've been in a long time.

The third is that I watched 30 Roc, then watched TV that night. I've lived in silence for years, unable to sit still long enough to watch a video or TV show. I didn't know my television was dying until the presidential debates. Some power of concentration has come back & it's a welcome guest.

OK, the next part of this post is enlightenment. I told my sponsor about how wretched I'd felt that morning & how I'd taken the day off, which she thought was a very good reaction. Then she reminded me of the 12-step axiom:

"You have awareness of this disease, but as long as you keep saying `I'm so angry at myself for relapsing,' you're playing God. Awareness, acceptance, action. You've got to accept that you're a compulsive overeater."

We ended the conversation & I went back to bed with Daisy, who was being therapy dog par excellence last night. What did she mean that I had to accept my disease? Wasn't I, every time I measured an ounce of chicken or went to a meeting? How could I move beyond my anger, at myself, at God? I'd relapsed, no one pushed me into a pint of Ben & Jerry's. How could I not be angry at myself?

As I was ruminating on this today, I stepped on a rock right on the ball of my foot. I have terrible, deep corns on the nerves in the balls of my feet. A podiatrist explained that they're too deep to remove & not curable because I have one toe that's too long & one that's too short. I can shave the callouses down & that helps a lot, but stepping on a rock will always make me wince smartly.

I've never blamed myself for my feet. I've never blamed God for them. I've never blamed myself for smoking (or only a little) & I don't blame God. I don't blame either of us when I get a cold (although I blamed him when my intestines got all tangled up & I had to have abdominal surgery) or it rains or my eyebrows need waxing. (I blame myself & my weight for being tired and achy, however. The examples I've given are really accurate). I shave my feet, enjoy my cigarette, take Thera-flu, complain a lot, put on my raincoat, make an appointment or let them go.

I decide whether to take action on stuff I'm stuck with or leave it be. But I don't rant at myself or God about them.

Compulsive eating & depression are painful. My feet are in pain. Compulsive eating & depression are physical facts about me as much as the way my feet are made. They just are. They aren't my fault. An addict will go back to her substance when she doesn't want her sobriety & when she doesn't take the actions to keep it from happening. & my best shot of conquering or riding out depression is not to eat sugar & flour.

I got it, finally. I have funny feet, two diseases, navy blue eyes, long fingers, am right-handed, am a spendthrift & like 19th century British novels.

It's who & what I am.

Day 21. Time to go make a salad with 1 cup of garbanzo beans, it being Lent & all.

We Plan, God Laughs

I didn't realize until this morning how much shame I could confess here.

The Bat Cave has very poor lighting. I have a large flashlight that I use at least once a day to read labels or find shoes. Lately it's been in steady use as I've worked on getting my new television & DVD/VCR hooked up & comfortably running. So I blame this on poor lighting.

Oh, & on me, of course.

I blew up during last fall's depression & Christmas madness at my parents' house, so much so that I was literally off my scale, which ends at 250. Last week I was finally at 250. I breathed a sigh of relief. I couldn't tell my sponsor how much I'd lost -- 10 pounds? fifteen or twenty? -- but I had succeeded, at least, in "fitting" my scale.

It was an achievement.

This has been a hard week. I'm cold all the time. Taking Daisy out means fitting her little booties on which is just this side of aggravating. I'm not just walking dogs, I'm climbing through the snow they love to explore. My computer needs a physical & a knee replacement. There's garbage everywhere because of human laziness & because we haven't had the Sanitation trucks for two pick-up days. The dogs are darting after food & after those first pristine hours of heavy snow, the world is pretty ugly.

I haven't gotten any writing done. The time I had for it yesterday I spent looking for a gentle, English-speaking geek who could help me out.

I haven't gotten any writing done. Some kind of deadline for the revised Angry Fat Girls is looming but we haven't settled on one yet. In the meantime, I have a sort of forward to write for it & I haven't gotten any writing done.

I mad. Pissed off. Angry. Resentful. Peevish. Sullen. At myself, the weather, time, obligations, human frailty.

(In the larger picture, the line above is a miracle. I'm feeling these feelings. I have names for them. I've experienced them a lot in the last ten days or so and I've ridden them out. A month ago I would have been feeling them and simultaneously thinking about when & what I could eat to make them shrink. They feel very big to me simply because I don't have the shame & chemical dousing of eating to reduce them. I'm rather proud of my brattiness.)

In that state this morning I thought I'd give myself some good news. Today is Day 19 & my food has been very clean & I'm always walking so I knew that something would have happened since last Thursday.

It had. I'd misread my scale. It ends at 260 rather than 250. I've either gained eight pounds from the number in my calendar last week or lost two pounds if I hadn't been such a dumbass as to not know how her own damn scale works.

I wanted to write about the Indian vegetables I crocked this week, or about how, as the Big Book says, "God is doing for [me] what [I] cannot do for [myself]". Instead, I guess I've just done a small treatment of Step 1: my life has become unmanageable.

& I feel like a fool. A very fat fool.