It never fails. A physical feat is put in front of me and I laugh and say, "Oh, that's cute. Yeah, that's not going to happen." Then I do it. I like that about me, that I'm capable of more than I think I am.
Alex and I decided we want to attempt the Insanity workout (I know, we're in trouble) so I decided to do the 100 push-ups routine again but with full body push-ups instead of the kneeling type. I've always had wimpy upper body strength, so I surprised myself by doing 15 in a set. Mind you, I have far from perfect form (I can NOT get low) but I did it!
So, the program started out well with 48 push-ups in 5 sets side-by-side with Alex. I'm also re-doing the squats with better form (dipping low).
Finally, I ran 20 minutes on the treadmill, which I've been struggling with since the middle of last week. I'm kind of glad Alex wasn't home because I was psyching myself up toward the end. Meaning I was talking to myself. Loudly. Repeatedly. Like a drill sergeant. You know what? It worked. I did it.
On February 20th, I was at 3.5 lbs. down from the 1st, which surprised me. I haven't exactly been eating the way I should be, but maybe that doesn't matter as much in the early stages. I'm losing weight at a healthy pace.
Now, if I could just lose my doubts about what I'm capable of...
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Good Day/Bad Day
The wind has been knocked out of my sails. It's annoying. It's aggravating that it's annoying, because I know being annoyed about it won't help. It's just that this is developing into a pattern. I know it's mostly hormonal: the timing lines up, my body image is completely shot, I'm in mortal fear of stepping onto the scale, I'm craving and eating like crazy, and I'm exhausted. Knowing the reason doesn't stop the feelings. I wish it did.
I start out with really good days. I'm getting stuff done, feeling energized and motivated, everything going my way, and then things happen toward the end of the day to wreck everything. Last night it was two things. As I stepped out of my therapist's office last night, I hit an invisible patch of ice and landed hard on my ass - and on my phone, which was in my jacket pocket. The thing was shattered beyond repair. Okay. That's fine. I dealt with it. A new phone is being delivered to me today. Done.
Then my mother called me in a tizzy. She and my brother are fighting again. I tried to remain removed from the situation, but my mom was so upset, yelling and crying, and I can't stand it when she's like that. I was angry, sad, and scared. I was also frustrated, because I'm happy. I'm so happy. I really am, but even a state away, I can be affected by my family's unhappiness.
I stopped my progress on the treadmill last night to make the call. I cried, hugged it out with Alex, and then somehow finished up on the treadmill. This morning, I couldn't do the run to the fullest extent I wanted. I want to put some blame on my lack of sleep, but placing blame isn't helping me feel any better.
Maybe the pattern will discontinue soon. I hope so.
I don't want to be at work today. I want to take a mental health day, but I know I won't. I'll just keep shuffling along, hoping today is a good day without the asterisk at the end.
I don't want to step on the scale. I probably should. Don't wanna.
I want to eat all of the things. I want to buy all of the things I can't afford. I want to be destructive in some way. I want to curl up in bed and not face the day, just for today.
I feel like I should end with some summary point here. But I don't feel like there really is a concise point that can capture how I'm feeling about things right now, so...
16/18 days working out this month. Strong. Doing it.
I start out with really good days. I'm getting stuff done, feeling energized and motivated, everything going my way, and then things happen toward the end of the day to wreck everything. Last night it was two things. As I stepped out of my therapist's office last night, I hit an invisible patch of ice and landed hard on my ass - and on my phone, which was in my jacket pocket. The thing was shattered beyond repair. Okay. That's fine. I dealt with it. A new phone is being delivered to me today. Done.
Then my mother called me in a tizzy. She and my brother are fighting again. I tried to remain removed from the situation, but my mom was so upset, yelling and crying, and I can't stand it when she's like that. I was angry, sad, and scared. I was also frustrated, because I'm happy. I'm so happy. I really am, but even a state away, I can be affected by my family's unhappiness.
I stopped my progress on the treadmill last night to make the call. I cried, hugged it out with Alex, and then somehow finished up on the treadmill. This morning, I couldn't do the run to the fullest extent I wanted. I want to put some blame on my lack of sleep, but placing blame isn't helping me feel any better.
Maybe the pattern will discontinue soon. I hope so.
I don't want to be at work today. I want to take a mental health day, but I know I won't. I'll just keep shuffling along, hoping today is a good day without the asterisk at the end.
I don't want to step on the scale. I probably should. Don't wanna.
I want to eat all of the things. I want to buy all of the things I can't afford. I want to be destructive in some way. I want to curl up in bed and not face the day, just for today.
I feel like I should end with some summary point here. But I don't feel like there really is a concise point that can capture how I'm feeling about things right now, so...
16/18 days working out this month. Strong. Doing it.
Saturday, February 15, 2014
Demons
I wanted to share these thoughts, because I think they're intimately linked with my disordered eating (mostly overeating). I want to transmit these words in a published way so that they feel more real to me and so that I can't try to escape them. I've said some of this stuff before, but maybe I'll come to a different conclusion this time. Here I go.
When I was little, I found out that the root of my name was the Latin word for "love" and most baby name books gave my name the meaning "loveable" or "worthy of love." I thought that was a cruel joke. I rarely felt loved for as long as I could remember. You should keep in mind that I was a sensitive kid. I think I was just born that way. I think I needed more love and affection than your average kid. My mother's language of love was to provide for as many of my essential needs as possible, but my mother also struggled with anger issues and there I was, a convenient, helpless target. The result was that the balance of love and affection seemed skewed when I was growing up.
I don't remember feeling loved in any consistent way that was relevant to my understanding. There were certainly moments that I can recall being hugged, playing with my mom who was in a goofy mood, and most important of all in my relationship with God, who I was told and believed loved me no matter what. That last thing is probably what saved me from a much more difficult life.
Anyway, back to my mom's love language. In the realm of meeting my essential needs, my mother was especially good at feeding me. We were not wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, but there was always food. Sometimes the cheap, junky, illogical creations of my childhood still provide me comfort when I'm sick or not feeling like myself. So, she didn't always tell me she loved me, and she didn't always know how to show it in a way I could understand, but she would always feed me.
One of my favorite memories of my childhood was in the aftermath of a hurricane. I don't remember what it was called, but I remember that it was bad. Several trees had been torn from the ground. The neighborhood was slammed by lashing rains and high winds. The power was out for a while, and by the time the worst of it had passed, it was dinner time. Without the use of the stove, dinner that night was Entenmanns' frosted chocolate donuts and Yoohoo. I remember thinking it was the best dinner ever.
There were people in our lives when I was growing up who helped our little family as best as they could, and frequently this help was in the form of food. We always walked away from Sunday church meals with leftovers for the week. Family friends would never let us leave their homes without bags and bags of food. I was never hungry growing up.
So, here I am, never lacking in one essential area (food) but severely lacking in another (love). Since food was never a scarcity, it was easy to overindulge in the effort to make up for what I was missing. I sometimes say that I don't know how I didn't develop another type of eating disorder, like bulimia or anorexia, because I remember one of the first times my mother ever called me fat. I was eight years old and outgrowing my clothes. I don't remember being particularly fat back then, but it stuck with me. Now I think that didn't develop the way I think it should have because it was attention, and I was okay with that sort of attention, or at least I was used to it.
I say all of this not to blame anyone for the way that I turned out, but to name a demon. In fiction and mythology a demon is often immortal or impossible to fight if you don't know it's name. Only when you name it can you defeat it, and I think that this is true as a therapeutic principle, too. The fact of the matter is that I grew up and I became loved in very clear, very fulfilling ways. I've spent more than three years in the most loving relationship of my life, and in the coming years we will be married and start a family of our own. Still, old habits die hard.
What I'm trying to say is that what started out as trying to make up for a lack of love remained as a force of habit. I overeat. I'm an overeater. Hello, my name is Amanda and I'm an overeater. I am addicted to food. I know my demon. I name it. I know how to fight it. It's going to be a daily struggle, but I'm up for the challenge, because I'm not a helpless, unloved kid any more. I'm a kick-ass adult overflowing with love.
When I was little, I found out that the root of my name was the Latin word for "love" and most baby name books gave my name the meaning "loveable" or "worthy of love." I thought that was a cruel joke. I rarely felt loved for as long as I could remember. You should keep in mind that I was a sensitive kid. I think I was just born that way. I think I needed more love and affection than your average kid. My mother's language of love was to provide for as many of my essential needs as possible, but my mother also struggled with anger issues and there I was, a convenient, helpless target. The result was that the balance of love and affection seemed skewed when I was growing up.
I don't remember feeling loved in any consistent way that was relevant to my understanding. There were certainly moments that I can recall being hugged, playing with my mom who was in a goofy mood, and most important of all in my relationship with God, who I was told and believed loved me no matter what. That last thing is probably what saved me from a much more difficult life.
Anyway, back to my mom's love language. In the realm of meeting my essential needs, my mother was especially good at feeding me. We were not wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, but there was always food. Sometimes the cheap, junky, illogical creations of my childhood still provide me comfort when I'm sick or not feeling like myself. So, she didn't always tell me she loved me, and she didn't always know how to show it in a way I could understand, but she would always feed me.
One of my favorite memories of my childhood was in the aftermath of a hurricane. I don't remember what it was called, but I remember that it was bad. Several trees had been torn from the ground. The neighborhood was slammed by lashing rains and high winds. The power was out for a while, and by the time the worst of it had passed, it was dinner time. Without the use of the stove, dinner that night was Entenmanns' frosted chocolate donuts and Yoohoo. I remember thinking it was the best dinner ever.
There were people in our lives when I was growing up who helped our little family as best as they could, and frequently this help was in the form of food. We always walked away from Sunday church meals with leftovers for the week. Family friends would never let us leave their homes without bags and bags of food. I was never hungry growing up.
So, here I am, never lacking in one essential area (food) but severely lacking in another (love). Since food was never a scarcity, it was easy to overindulge in the effort to make up for what I was missing. I sometimes say that I don't know how I didn't develop another type of eating disorder, like bulimia or anorexia, because I remember one of the first times my mother ever called me fat. I was eight years old and outgrowing my clothes. I don't remember being particularly fat back then, but it stuck with me. Now I think that didn't develop the way I think it should have because it was attention, and I was okay with that sort of attention, or at least I was used to it.
I say all of this not to blame anyone for the way that I turned out, but to name a demon. In fiction and mythology a demon is often immortal or impossible to fight if you don't know it's name. Only when you name it can you defeat it, and I think that this is true as a therapeutic principle, too. The fact of the matter is that I grew up and I became loved in very clear, very fulfilling ways. I've spent more than three years in the most loving relationship of my life, and in the coming years we will be married and start a family of our own. Still, old habits die hard.
What I'm trying to say is that what started out as trying to make up for a lack of love remained as a force of habit. I overeat. I'm an overeater. Hello, my name is Amanda and I'm an overeater. I am addicted to food. I know my demon. I name it. I know how to fight it. It's going to be a daily struggle, but I'm up for the challenge, because I'm not a helpless, unloved kid any more. I'm a kick-ass adult overflowing with love.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
12 Days In
Twelve days into February and here's where I stand:
119,246 steps walked ~ roughly 33% of last month (after some editing - whoopsie math!)
53.92 miles walked ~ roughly 51% of last month
716 kneeling push-ups ~ roughly 64% of last month
1054 squats ~ roughly 66% of last month
10 days 10,000 steps goal met ~ roughly 91% of last month
7 days 5 mile goal met ~ roughly116% of last month!
Starting weight: 231.3 lbs.
Current weight: 229.3 lbs.
Weight change: -2 lbs.
Feeling: wavering between exhausted and exhilarated. Also, accomplished. Sixteen days to go!
119,246 steps walked ~ roughly 33% of last month (after some editing - whoopsie math!)
53.92 miles walked ~ roughly 51% of last month
716 kneeling push-ups ~ roughly 64% of last month
1054 squats ~ roughly 66% of last month
10 days 10,000 steps goal met ~ roughly 91% of last month
7 days 5 mile goal met ~ roughly116% of last month!
Starting weight: 231.3 lbs.
Current weight: 229.3 lbs.
Weight change: -2 lbs.
Feeling: wavering between exhausted and exhilarated. Also, accomplished. Sixteen days to go!
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Exhausted
Straight up. Wiped out. Exhausted.
Here's what I'm doing wrong:
Here's what I'm doing wrong:
- Pushing myself because I want to do better.
- Not sleeping like I should.
- Not eating exactly like I should.
- Not taking care of myself in general.
- Gettin' stuff done.
- Working on my fitness.
- Eating better.
- Taking the day off when I feel less-than-healthy.
 |
| Go to hell, motivational poster. |
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Strength
So, the weightloss is kind of slow. It gets me down, honestly, but I'm trying to change my thinking around this. The weightloss is happening, and is happening at a healthy pace.
In the meantime, I've gained a lot more strength than I can ever remember having. My quads and hamstrings as well as my chest, shoulders, back, and arms are all strengthening as a result of the kneeling push-ups and the squats. I walk with more purpose and feel more capable now. The walking and running provide me with good bloodflow and more strength in the legs, cardiovascular, and core.
The scale doesn't tell the whole story. How I feel says more than the numbers I see.
... now if I could just believe this when I step on the scale and it refuses to move anywhere quickly.
In the meantime, I've gained a lot more strength than I can ever remember having. My quads and hamstrings as well as my chest, shoulders, back, and arms are all strengthening as a result of the kneeling push-ups and the squats. I walk with more purpose and feel more capable now. The walking and running provide me with good bloodflow and more strength in the legs, cardiovascular, and core.
The scale doesn't tell the whole story. How I feel says more than the numbers I see.
... now if I could just believe this when I step on the scale and it refuses to move anywhere quickly.
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Banishing the Yo-Yo
Yo-yo dieting. It happens to the best of us. I don't know what the answer is to banishing this (and, as always, I am not interested in the millions of little "helpful" pieces of advice that ya'll might have on the tips of your fingers). I'm guessing that I need to stop being so hard on myself.
Here's some of what didn't work last time: Overeaters Anonymous. They got weird on me after a couple of meetings, calling me up to stress that I shouldn't be offering my services as a therapist when all I was doing was reaching out to offer help, like all 12-steppers are supposed to do. I was kind of hurt and disillusioned by that experience, so I never went back. Trust me, guys, I am absolutely, 100% not interested in flexing my therapist mucles outside of work. I get enough hours of that throughout the week. Promise.
Also, I think that I need to track down my actual thoughts and journal more. The "fuck-its" seem to be what leads me toward the downward spiral of the yo-yo. With my new job in addictions, I hear this come up a lot. You're working so hard, you're energized and like the change and then... stuff. And then... slow progress. And then... frustration. And then... FUCK IT!
And then there's my health. I don't know what started it, though it was probably the birth control I was on (me + hormones = mortal enemies). I've been breaking out in itchy hives seemingly without provocation since the summer. Eliminating the birth control has not helped. Creams don't really help. Benadryl makes me more sleepy than anything. My doctor thinks it's an autoimmune disease at this point, and though I'm no doctor, I'm sure my weight doesn't help matters.
So, here I go, trying again. As cliché as this is going to sound, I started on January 1st. I weighed myself and I started trying again. It's been hit-and-miss with the weigh-ins because I didn't want to get discouraged, but here's the numbers, starting with the effort and ending with the month's weightloss.
24/31 days working out
242,025 steps (approximately, as measured by my Fitbit One)
105.35 miles (approximately, as measured by my Fitbit One)
11 days meeting 10,000 daily steps goal
6 days meeting 5.0 daily miles goal
1586 squats (following program at twohundredsquats.com)
1105 kneeling push-ups (following program at hundredpushups.com)
And... drum roll please!
Starting weight: 236 lbs.
Ending weight: 231.3 lbs.
So, not fabulous loss there, but the goal next month is simply DO BETTER. NO YO-YO. Let's see what happens.
Here's some of what didn't work last time: Overeaters Anonymous. They got weird on me after a couple of meetings, calling me up to stress that I shouldn't be offering my services as a therapist when all I was doing was reaching out to offer help, like all 12-steppers are supposed to do. I was kind of hurt and disillusioned by that experience, so I never went back. Trust me, guys, I am absolutely, 100% not interested in flexing my therapist mucles outside of work. I get enough hours of that throughout the week. Promise.
Also, I think that I need to track down my actual thoughts and journal more. The "fuck-its" seem to be what leads me toward the downward spiral of the yo-yo. With my new job in addictions, I hear this come up a lot. You're working so hard, you're energized and like the change and then... stuff. And then... slow progress. And then... frustration. And then... FUCK IT!
And then there's my health. I don't know what started it, though it was probably the birth control I was on (me + hormones = mortal enemies). I've been breaking out in itchy hives seemingly without provocation since the summer. Eliminating the birth control has not helped. Creams don't really help. Benadryl makes me more sleepy than anything. My doctor thinks it's an autoimmune disease at this point, and though I'm no doctor, I'm sure my weight doesn't help matters.
So, here I go, trying again. As cliché as this is going to sound, I started on January 1st. I weighed myself and I started trying again. It's been hit-and-miss with the weigh-ins because I didn't want to get discouraged, but here's the numbers, starting with the effort and ending with the month's weightloss.
24/31 days working out
242,025 steps (approximately, as measured by my Fitbit One)
105.35 miles (approximately, as measured by my Fitbit One)
11 days meeting 10,000 daily steps goal
6 days meeting 5.0 daily miles goal
1586 squats (following program at twohundredsquats.com)
1105 kneeling push-ups (following program at hundredpushups.com)
And... drum roll please!
Starting weight: 236 lbs.
Ending weight: 231.3 lbs.
So, not fabulous loss there, but the goal next month is simply DO BETTER. NO YO-YO. Let's see what happens.
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