one house, good friends, and the balance of life

Well, we're down to one house now. The movers came and took all well, most of my stuff out of the westside house on Saturday. Then I spent the day arranging and merging our two sets of furniture, and watching the kids at the northside house while Rob, Kat, Dale, and Tina did repairs on the other one. I fully intended to go over there and help after the movers were done moving my stuff in, but Rob and Dale decided that it would be better to have the kids (their two, our one) entertained and out of the way than it would be to have an extra pair of hands over there. So I stayed where I was, and totally felt like a slacker for doing so. After all, it was MY house they were going to work on. And Kat's the only one of them that actually lives (or has ever lived) there.

By the time they were done, the flowerbeds were cut back to non-jungle proportions and remulched (Tina), the rotted facia board was replaced (Dale), the tub was repaired (Dale & Rob), the house was cleaned (Kat), and Kat's furniture was moved in. While they were doing that, I rearranged furniture at the other house, corralled children and cats, unpacked some boxes, did a couple loads of laundry, took the kids to McDonalds, and let Rob walk me through putting in a trouble ticket with AT&T for his job since he didn't have access to a computer from there. I think I got the better end of the deal. I also think that when it comes to good friends, we hit the lottery.

So anyway, I pretty much abandoned my food log somewhere about the middle of Wednesday this week. I've eaten considerably more than 19 points, and the scale is showing it. I've buckled down today, though, and I plan to work out in the afternoon also (my first workout this week, sadly). Hopefully 3 24-point days will be enough to bring me back down to a maintain...maybe even a loss.

Why do I keep doing this to myself?

Almost invariably, I follow a good week with an industrial-strength bad one. A part of me thinks that maybe I'm afraid to succeed. It's been 11 years since I was happy with my body, and at that time I was struggling with everything else. I didn't know who I was, or what I wanted to do. I was hanging out with kids 2-3 years younger than me, having an on-again, off-again "relationship" with a guy that I knew didn't give one tin shit about me. I tried to tell myself that I didn't care that he didn't care, because I didn't care about him either. It was an arrangement of mutual convenience--a girl has needs, after all. And then I got pregnant and, well, all my illusions were exposed for what they were. I still didn't want a real relationship with him, but I at least wanted him to care. He didn't.

And it was more than just him. I was failing out of college because I was bored. I felt trapped by my 4-year scholarship (I know, waaah, poor little rich girl), because I didn't want to go to that school anymore but couldn't really afford to go somewhere else. I spent more time writing angsty poetry in the coffee shop than I did in class. In that sense and many others, my pregnancy saved me. It was a way to get out and still save face. Dropping out because I was pregnant gave me an acceptable excuse, even noble. Sure, I had made an embarrassing mistake, but I was taking responsibility for it. I was dropping out to work more, so that I could support my baby. Of course it wasn't because I was a procrastinating slacker who hated school and was too scared to step out of the familiar and make things better, and never mind that I only upped my working hours by 10-12 per week anyway.

Three years, 3 majors, 2 schools, 2 jobs, and one degree later, my life was back on track and I had grown up a lot. I had moved to Texas, I was employed full-time, I had an apartment, a healthy kid, and a life. I also had 40 extra pounds, and that number was climbing. I felt successful and I was happy with how everything had turned out, but I was fat, and getting fatter every day.

So, to sum up...the last time I was thin, my life was a mess, my self-esteem was in the toilet, and just about the only thing I liked about my life was my body. Now, my life is stable, I'm reasonably confident, and just about the only thing I don't like about my life is my body. Could it be that, on some subconscious level, I'm afraid to mess with that balance?

Or it could just be that I'm on the low end of a decade (is that the right word?), and my progress always stalls there. It happened in the low 200s, it happened in the low 190s, and now it's happening in the low 180s. Maybe fear of the unknown is why it's happening every time, or maybe it's just chemistry. Who really knows, eh?

joy- I've been reading your blog for a year now (found it randomly, and for some reason got into the habit of checking it regularly). it's interesting to read more about how you got to where you are. I would recommend you read (if you haven't already) anything by Geneen Roth- she addresses the subject of our attitudes towards our bodies and the comfort/security that being 'fat' can represent with abundant humour and self depreciation.