So, I've owed readers his post for awhile. I'm not sure anyone is keeping track, or even reading me that closely, but I mentioned three weeks ago that I was referred to a dietician and said I would tell you all more about that and what I learned.
I'll be very honest - I went in with my guard up a little. I didn't want to be told I had to eat anything weird, or that I had to give up foods I liked forever. In my mind, it's not reality to never have pizza again. For instance, there is someone in my life who says, "I don't eat carbs. Ever. Even fruit." Except . . . he drinks, so he does imbibe carbs. I wanted advice on how to get the best results while still keeping in mind that my job requires I travel, a lot, and, I have to be able to go out and have fun sometimes too. I needed some help finding the land of moderation and figuring out how to put down roots there.
I'll also admit that my guard was up because people make assumptions about fat. People assume that when they see fat it means the person wearing it doesn't like vegetables, doesn't work out, has no concept of how to eat, etc. And frankly, my problems are not about knowledge or even about effort. My problems are biological and psychological. I have a lot of knowledge about the benefits of salad and protein and why it's important to eat breakfast and have a couple of well planned snacks. I'm not saying I know everything, I'm saying that my hypoglycemia and my years of dieting means I know more than the average person, regardless of my size.
I've had doctors in the past assume that I am unwilling to eat healthy, or a couch potato. I had one doc tell me if I was unwilling to work on my weight, he wouldn't take me as a patient in his asthma management practice. That's how he brought the topic up with me. He didn't ask what I had done in the past to address my weight - he assumed it was something he would have to convince me of. Ummm, hi. I look in the mirror every day. Do you think I dig sweating in the gym 4-8 hours a week to be this size? When I then told him how much I was working out and how healthy I was eating, he dismissed me and said, "Well, then you'd be smaller than this. You should think seriously about a 1200 calorie diet or getting your stomach stapled." I looked him straight in the eye and said, "I'm not unwilling to talk about my weight or even work on it. Do you have any constructive suggestions or are you just going to continue to assume I'm lazy and ignorant.?"
I lodged a serious complaint against him and found a new doctor, who, by the way did some tests to prove that in fact my lung capacity is not impacted by my weight. But it stuck with me that that doctor felt free to assume so much about me after having me in his office for 4 minutes, and felt free to recommend something medically dangerous for me. (If a doctor who is educated about the body and how it works could assume this, what does the person passing me on the street think?)
It was with this baggage I entered into the dieticians office. I know I'm overweight. I've known it since I was seven. I also know that I have medical conditions that make it impossible for me to ever be a size 2. I know those same medical issues make weight loss a very slow battle. And I know that my lifestyle and work don't do me any favors in that area either. And I know that when you add all of that together it makes it very, very hard for me to stay motivated. Perhaps most importantly, I also know that food is my drug of choice. I choose it over alcohol and caffeine every day and twice on Sundays. It's not just that I am someone who likes food or enjoys it and has somehow accidentally enjoyed too much of it recently. Food makes me feel better, but then it makes me feel worse. It's an abusive relationship. I mean, sometimes I can eat chicken and salad and not feel anything other than glad I ate lunch. But other times . . . mmmmm, all I can think of is unplugging myself with some snack of choice.
The dietician did some really awesome things for me. She confirmed that it's crazy to try and count calories all day long, and that people who do that are more likely to either struggle in the other direction, becoming obsessed with how few calories they can have, or to become someone who doesn't consider that not all calories are created equal (100 calories of brussel sprouts are always going to be better for you than 100 calories of soda). She gave me an opportunity to practice my working knowledge of serving sizes and good choices (1 cup = a tennis ball. 3 ounces of protein = a deck of cards, and so on). She took my RMR which told us how many calories I burn by breathing and doing nothing else. This gives us a baseline of how I should plan to exercise and eat to get the best results. We agreed on the following - 5 servings of bread, grains, or starchy vegetables, 2 servings of fruit (I can combine those for 7 overall servings of "carbs" but it's best for most of those to come from whole grains or vegetable sources rather than fruits), 3-5 servings of non starchy vegetables (tomatoes, broccoli, V8, asparagus, brussel sprouts, etc.), 3 servings of dairy and 7 of protein, 5 servings of fat (1 tsp of butter, 1 slice of bacon, 5 almonds, etc.). This left 180 discretionary calories a day (honey and granola in my Greek yogurt, 1 beer, a handful of chips, etc.) We calculated all of this based on aiming for an intake of 1850 calories a day and taking into account 2 hours of lifting and 3 of cardio a week.
The goal was to lose 1.25 pounds a week, and I'll be honest, that sounded like a lot to me in good and bad ways. Typically at my best if I eat perfectly and work out a LOT I might lose 3 pounds a month. But, she did the math and I wanted to believe in this. I paid for the appointment out of pocket, after all. 5 pounds a month sounded GREAT!
She didn't ask me to take any weird supplements or anything, and the only things she suggested I try were a particular kind of low-calorie organic bread and spaghetti squash as carbs. She suggested these because those two options allow me to have larger servings so she hoped it would mean my feeling more full and satisfied.
We discussed how someone with my medical issues has inherited a genetic predisposition to insulin resistance, and this means I have to have the right kind of carbs to "unlock the gates" and let food get let in to be converted to energy instead of being stored as fat. I'm lucky that with all of this going on that I never, never test as being pre-diabetic or as having even borderline issues with my thyroid. Still, that insulin resistance will make it tricky to find the right food combination for me for the rest of my life. It will often mean I eat but my body forgets it has energy and reacts to low blood-sugar. (Low-blood sugar crashes, are without a doubt, the worst feeling I've ever had. I prefer bone breaks and serious asthma attacks to that feeling)
As it turns out, it also means my dietician has some more work to do. After three weeks, I lost less than one pound. ARG! I know that her practice probably does see a lot of people who are making their first attempt to get healthy. But she's one of my last stops. After this I . . . well, I won't give up. But I may put more effort into dealing with myself rather than continuing to spend a lot of time and money on trying to be something I'm not or can't be. If I can't lose weight, maybe putting more effort into maintaining and being ok with that is wise. I know, I know, maybe I can lose weight just very, very slowly. Or maybe plugging all of my numbers into a formula doesn't capture the whole picture of how my body works. Maybe we just haven't found the answer yet.
I feel very, very tired when I think about how much work it is for me to do this, even with help, and still see minimal results. I do the workouts, I eat the salad, I take the meds . . . it seems like it's time for the pay off. She looked at my food logs and was stumped, because I have been eating a lot of yummy vegetables and doing a lot of exercise. In my heart of hearts I knew that 5 pounds a month was a lot to hope for - not for "normal" people maybe, but for me. I feel I've eared a break and it would be nice to have something work the way it's supposed to. It turns out doing the math right isn't enough.
In a way it was good to know I'm not the only one that my weight is mysterious to. It's good to know I'm not the only person who has to look at me and wonder why the things that work for everyone else don't work for me. It's good to know that someone else has to do extra work to make my diet and exercise give me the results I should have. It's also really discouraging that the things that work for everyone else don't work for me. It's disappointing that hard work isn't enough because I don't know what else to do. I hope the dietician does.
I will say, just as a chance for me to stick my tongue out to that awful doctor - the dietician also told me that less than 1600 calories and/or no-carbs would make my hormones worse. So there. Phhhhhttttttt!!!!
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Three years ago today
Ah, Halloween. This is my mother's favorite holiday, and although I've been through different phases and thoughts about it, I do love this holiday. I love how excited children are about their costumes. I love how schools and pre-schools make this a fun day. I love that this is a holiday for everyone. I love that there are as many ways to celebrate this holiday as there are families. I love that this is a holiday where you can do as little as buying some stuff to give out and turning on your porch light, or as much as making a bug cake and putting a lot of thought into one's costume . . .
I love my memories of my mom sewing our costumes. And I love trick-or-treaters knocking on the doors of places I've lived. I went through a phase in high school where I pretended to dislike this holiday, but still not-so-secretly enjoyed staying home and giving out the treats to the kids knocking on our door. I went through a phase in college where this holiday genuinely struck fear into my heart. Hampshire Halloween is legend - wait for it - dary. It actually has gotten quite tame but when I was there there were some old-school staff who remembered the days of "Trip or Treat" where the open campus attracted a lot of outsiders, drugs, and parties fueled by acid and kegs. As Hampshire's answer to RA's (more responsibility and less power than RA's in regular dorms) I was typically working from noon until 3 or 4 the next morning on different shifts: setting up drug-free activities, running drug-free activities, patrolling the dorm, patrolling outside the dorm, and seeing a LOT of naked, drunk people. I mean a lot. We weren't allowed to be in costumes, so I sort of fell out of the habit of costumes somewhere between high school and college. It took a major push to put me in a costume for Halloween in grad school and it only happened once (And it was an incredibly offensive inside joke. Ahem.) .
So, when I started working, I had hoped to retire costuming and just be the cool lady who handed out treats and stayed HOME watching scary movies. I have struggled, of course, on what to give out. I don't want candy in my house, and I don't really want to infect neighbor kids with corn syrup if I can help it, yet, you can't give out apples because most parents don't trust that, and with good reason. I gave out toys one year. I gave out water bottles another year, but of course I worried about being the "uncool" neighbor. Life has been easier in this condo because I don't get trick-or-treaters. Most people living in this development are young professionals. There are a few young families but I've learned they take their children to one of the local Halloween parties rather than trick or treating. So, for the past two years, I've made Halloween bags for the children in my building. This year they each got a toy (bug, mummy, etc.) or glow stick, a spider ring, a package of cheese crackers, a bag of organic animal crackers, and a water bottle. I know, so very Boulder-hippie-progressive of me.
As I was putting those together and delivering them yesterday, I was remembering how different things were three years ago. Three years ago I came home on Halloween afternoon devastated. I called my mom and best friend and left them messages updating them to tell them I was fine but not ok, and that I needed to be alone. I turned my lights off and prepared to drink a lot of vodka, and pass out ASAP and be left alone all weekend. In the end, drinking alone didn't appeal to me. I watched scary movies on my computer and pulled all the shades. It didn't occur to me until the next week that no one had come knocking so I must not have had trick-or-treaters. I was that emotionally absorbed.
See, I had arrived here only four months before. I came for my fiance, and my company created this position for me (though it has worked out very much to their advantage as well, so at least I don't have to feel guilty about THAT). About 2 months after my arrival, my dad, who had been sick, got much more ill very suddenly. My father didn't quite tell me what was going on, but between my mom having seen him in the hospital and being so, so quiet, and my aunt sharing news from the doctor, and my dad saying, "Well, I guess you should do something soon," in response to me asking if I needed to come home (sidenote: why everyone refers to Connecticut as my "home" is a mystery since I have not had residence there for as long as I DID have residence there . . . ) I decided to hop a plane with some black clothes. Sadly, I was right and I needed those clothes. I also needed the 10 days before he passed, and a couple of weeks after in order to clean out his house. All told, I was gone for more than 3 weeks. It was a long, hot, grueling, emotional, complicated 3.5 weeks where a lot of things happened that were just as difficult as my father's death.
It took a lot of fast foot work to make this trip happen, and a lot of financial maneuvering, but when I left I had a temporary apartment with my fiance, a security deposit on the condo we were jonesing for, bills paid, the move into the condo planned and paid for (even though I couldn't be there), and a relationship to come back to.
When I came back, well, things were subtly different. The condo was (and IS!) great, but the person I left in it . . . well, a lot of things happened to be sure, but let's just say that somehow he felt that my dad dying was about his feelings, not mine. I was shocked by his decision to not be part of anything that I needed, and frankly, I was exhausted from all of the family drama I had just flown back from. I had only enough fight in me to yell once, and throw one watermelon (yes that happened). It didn't quite sink in for me that the moment I needed something from the relationship he left. I had enough presence to say some really biting things and to insist that he take his things right away. I had scant threads of self-respect but just enough knitted together to insist that he pay me back for the money I had spent supporting him while on unpaid family medical leave. And then, nothing. Everything is a blur of unhappiness and trying to explain how this happened to various people. I put one foot in front of the other, I got up and worked, but my heart wasn't in anything. I was double-grieving and it sucked up all my heart and soul.
So, a few weeks later when he asked to meet me for pizza and then said he was getting counseling and wanted to start couples counseling with me, it seemed like a good thing. I took it as him taking steps to sort himself out, to try and make things better, to not give up on us. We had our first session which was really good and helpful, and I loved the therapist. We had a complicated time making our second appointment, and decided the only day that worked for all three of us was Halloween.
Do you see where this is going? I didn't.
In between the first and second session we had some things we were supposed to work on separately and together. And we had agreed on a couple of phone calls and a chance to get together in person. When he called, he immediately was stand-off-ish and had excuses why he needed to change that schedule. When I expressed my concern about that he hung up on me unceremoniously. After that, he wouldn't answer any texts, calls, or emails. I did let him know that barring hearing anything from him, I would plan to see him in therapy.
I had talked with my best, best friend about not wanting to show up after all of this. He said," It may not turn out well. But you have to go. Not only did you say you would be there, but if you don't go, you'll always not only wonder if things could've been different . . . I know you. You also need to know you did what you could. All you could. You need to be able to like yourself for that. "
So, Halloween arrived, and I took two hours off from work to get over there, and have time for the session and to drive back. I showed up 10 minutes early, and proceeded to sit in the waiting room for 25 minutes. It was the most humiliating 25 minutes of my life. I kept breathing, shaking, and checking my phone for the time . . . or any messages. It slowly dawned on me that he wasn't coming. It took me about 15 of the 25 minutes to really convince myself that not only was he not coming, but apparently didn't consider spending the 13 seconds it would've taken to text or email me so that I didn't leave work for this. Then it took me another 5 minutes to understand that the therapist didn't seem to be looking for me or him. And 5 minutes after that it occurred to me that nobody at the front desk was calling either of our names. This is how strongly I see and believe in the best in people. It took me 25 minutes of sitting in an empty waiting room before the horrible truth rolled over me.
Like I said, humiliating. Devastating. I felt so . . . used. Discarded. And so dumb. And honestly like the biggest asshole in the western hemisphere for making such a giant deal out of this thing that he so clearly thought nothing of.
I finally talked to the front desk, and the therapist, and found that my beloved (heh) had canceled the appointment four days before. Wow. So, I was stick-a-fork-in-me-DONE. I just couldn't fathom that this was the person who supposedly loved me so much just a couple of months before. I couldn't believe that I had done all I was asked to do and more, only to get this in return. I was absolutely floored that I had worked so hard to make it emotionally ok for me to show up to this session after being shunned, only to find that . . . he didn't care at all. Later is was clear that it was to his advantage to suggest free counseling and then run away from it because it delayed him having to write a check to me. But at the time, nothing occurred to me other than that he respected and cared for me so little after years of having my support (in a lot of different forms) and understanding and love that he would let me show up knowing he wouldn't bet there.
So, I drove home, sans candy but full of shock and profound numbness. I called a couple of people to say, "I'm not ok but I'm fine. He didn't show up." and I went to bed. At 3 in the afternoon.
All of a sudden today I remembered that this was my three-year anniversary of getting out of that relationship. What he did was shocking and hurtful, but in the end, I am so grateful I didn't marry him, or worse, have kids with him. I am grateful that I got OUT. I'm thankful, so thankful that I moved on. I never would have known how bad things were, and how needy and demanding he was if I stayed inside that environment, but from the outside, it is clear there was no room for me to take a deep breath, much less have a life or need things. So, even when I am struggling now, even when finding the time to work out is hard, when figuring out what to eat is effort, when my brain is consumed by new ways to walk, even then, I am grateful. I was sad, and lonely, and challenged by that break-up, but my life is truly better for it. I get to be MYSELF and figure out who that is now. there is room for me. sometimes I wonder if all this room will make it hard to have a lasting relationship with someone else, but I'm not sorry I get to be me. So, corn syrup or not, this is a day to celebrate and remember.
I love my memories of my mom sewing our costumes. And I love trick-or-treaters knocking on the doors of places I've lived. I went through a phase in high school where I pretended to dislike this holiday, but still not-so-secretly enjoyed staying home and giving out the treats to the kids knocking on our door. I went through a phase in college where this holiday genuinely struck fear into my heart. Hampshire Halloween is legend - wait for it - dary. It actually has gotten quite tame but when I was there there were some old-school staff who remembered the days of "Trip or Treat" where the open campus attracted a lot of outsiders, drugs, and parties fueled by acid and kegs. As Hampshire's answer to RA's (more responsibility and less power than RA's in regular dorms) I was typically working from noon until 3 or 4 the next morning on different shifts: setting up drug-free activities, running drug-free activities, patrolling the dorm, patrolling outside the dorm, and seeing a LOT of naked, drunk people. I mean a lot. We weren't allowed to be in costumes, so I sort of fell out of the habit of costumes somewhere between high school and college. It took a major push to put me in a costume for Halloween in grad school and it only happened once (And it was an incredibly offensive inside joke. Ahem.) .
So, when I started working, I had hoped to retire costuming and just be the cool lady who handed out treats and stayed HOME watching scary movies. I have struggled, of course, on what to give out. I don't want candy in my house, and I don't really want to infect neighbor kids with corn syrup if I can help it, yet, you can't give out apples because most parents don't trust that, and with good reason. I gave out toys one year. I gave out water bottles another year, but of course I worried about being the "uncool" neighbor. Life has been easier in this condo because I don't get trick-or-treaters. Most people living in this development are young professionals. There are a few young families but I've learned they take their children to one of the local Halloween parties rather than trick or treating. So, for the past two years, I've made Halloween bags for the children in my building. This year they each got a toy (bug, mummy, etc.) or glow stick, a spider ring, a package of cheese crackers, a bag of organic animal crackers, and a water bottle. I know, so very Boulder-hippie-progressive of me.
As I was putting those together and delivering them yesterday, I was remembering how different things were three years ago. Three years ago I came home on Halloween afternoon devastated. I called my mom and best friend and left them messages updating them to tell them I was fine but not ok, and that I needed to be alone. I turned my lights off and prepared to drink a lot of vodka, and pass out ASAP and be left alone all weekend. In the end, drinking alone didn't appeal to me. I watched scary movies on my computer and pulled all the shades. It didn't occur to me until the next week that no one had come knocking so I must not have had trick-or-treaters. I was that emotionally absorbed.
See, I had arrived here only four months before. I came for my fiance, and my company created this position for me (though it has worked out very much to their advantage as well, so at least I don't have to feel guilty about THAT). About 2 months after my arrival, my dad, who had been sick, got much more ill very suddenly. My father didn't quite tell me what was going on, but between my mom having seen him in the hospital and being so, so quiet, and my aunt sharing news from the doctor, and my dad saying, "Well, I guess you should do something soon," in response to me asking if I needed to come home (sidenote: why everyone refers to Connecticut as my "home" is a mystery since I have not had residence there for as long as I DID have residence there . . . ) I decided to hop a plane with some black clothes. Sadly, I was right and I needed those clothes. I also needed the 10 days before he passed, and a couple of weeks after in order to clean out his house. All told, I was gone for more than 3 weeks. It was a long, hot, grueling, emotional, complicated 3.5 weeks where a lot of things happened that were just as difficult as my father's death.
It took a lot of fast foot work to make this trip happen, and a lot of financial maneuvering, but when I left I had a temporary apartment with my fiance, a security deposit on the condo we were jonesing for, bills paid, the move into the condo planned and paid for (even though I couldn't be there), and a relationship to come back to.
When I came back, well, things were subtly different. The condo was (and IS!) great, but the person I left in it . . . well, a lot of things happened to be sure, but let's just say that somehow he felt that my dad dying was about his feelings, not mine. I was shocked by his decision to not be part of anything that I needed, and frankly, I was exhausted from all of the family drama I had just flown back from. I had only enough fight in me to yell once, and throw one watermelon (yes that happened). It didn't quite sink in for me that the moment I needed something from the relationship he left. I had enough presence to say some really biting things and to insist that he take his things right away. I had scant threads of self-respect but just enough knitted together to insist that he pay me back for the money I had spent supporting him while on unpaid family medical leave. And then, nothing. Everything is a blur of unhappiness and trying to explain how this happened to various people. I put one foot in front of the other, I got up and worked, but my heart wasn't in anything. I was double-grieving and it sucked up all my heart and soul.
So, a few weeks later when he asked to meet me for pizza and then said he was getting counseling and wanted to start couples counseling with me, it seemed like a good thing. I took it as him taking steps to sort himself out, to try and make things better, to not give up on us. We had our first session which was really good and helpful, and I loved the therapist. We had a complicated time making our second appointment, and decided the only day that worked for all three of us was Halloween.
Do you see where this is going? I didn't.
In between the first and second session we had some things we were supposed to work on separately and together. And we had agreed on a couple of phone calls and a chance to get together in person. When he called, he immediately was stand-off-ish and had excuses why he needed to change that schedule. When I expressed my concern about that he hung up on me unceremoniously. After that, he wouldn't answer any texts, calls, or emails. I did let him know that barring hearing anything from him, I would plan to see him in therapy.
I had talked with my best, best friend about not wanting to show up after all of this. He said," It may not turn out well. But you have to go. Not only did you say you would be there, but if you don't go, you'll always not only wonder if things could've been different . . . I know you. You also need to know you did what you could. All you could. You need to be able to like yourself for that. "
So, Halloween arrived, and I took two hours off from work to get over there, and have time for the session and to drive back. I showed up 10 minutes early, and proceeded to sit in the waiting room for 25 minutes. It was the most humiliating 25 minutes of my life. I kept breathing, shaking, and checking my phone for the time . . . or any messages. It slowly dawned on me that he wasn't coming. It took me about 15 of the 25 minutes to really convince myself that not only was he not coming, but apparently didn't consider spending the 13 seconds it would've taken to text or email me so that I didn't leave work for this. Then it took me another 5 minutes to understand that the therapist didn't seem to be looking for me or him. And 5 minutes after that it occurred to me that nobody at the front desk was calling either of our names. This is how strongly I see and believe in the best in people. It took me 25 minutes of sitting in an empty waiting room before the horrible truth rolled over me.
Like I said, humiliating. Devastating. I felt so . . . used. Discarded. And so dumb. And honestly like the biggest asshole in the western hemisphere for making such a giant deal out of this thing that he so clearly thought nothing of.
I finally talked to the front desk, and the therapist, and found that my beloved (heh) had canceled the appointment four days before. Wow. So, I was stick-a-fork-in-me-DONE. I just couldn't fathom that this was the person who supposedly loved me so much just a couple of months before. I couldn't believe that I had done all I was asked to do and more, only to get this in return. I was absolutely floored that I had worked so hard to make it emotionally ok for me to show up to this session after being shunned, only to find that . . . he didn't care at all. Later is was clear that it was to his advantage to suggest free counseling and then run away from it because it delayed him having to write a check to me. But at the time, nothing occurred to me other than that he respected and cared for me so little after years of having my support (in a lot of different forms) and understanding and love that he would let me show up knowing he wouldn't bet there.
So, I drove home, sans candy but full of shock and profound numbness. I called a couple of people to say, "I'm not ok but I'm fine. He didn't show up." and I went to bed. At 3 in the afternoon.
All of a sudden today I remembered that this was my three-year anniversary of getting out of that relationship. What he did was shocking and hurtful, but in the end, I am so grateful I didn't marry him, or worse, have kids with him. I am grateful that I got OUT. I'm thankful, so thankful that I moved on. I never would have known how bad things were, and how needy and demanding he was if I stayed inside that environment, but from the outside, it is clear there was no room for me to take a deep breath, much less have a life or need things. So, even when I am struggling now, even when finding the time to work out is hard, when figuring out what to eat is effort, when my brain is consumed by new ways to walk, even then, I am grateful. I was sad, and lonely, and challenged by that break-up, but my life is truly better for it. I get to be MYSELF and figure out who that is now. there is room for me. sometimes I wonder if all this room will make it hard to have a lasting relationship with someone else, but I'm not sorry I get to be me. So, corn syrup or not, this is a day to celebrate and remember.
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