Compulsive Calorie Consumption

 

Indulge me as I share with you the facts of my fatness. 

I have never been happy with my body or weight, except for a period of approximately 2 days my sophomore year in college after a bout of the German measles and just a pinch of major depression kept me bedridden for much of my Christmas break.  With no food and a 19-year-old's metabolism, I probably lost 15 pounds and recall returning to school and walking into my movement class (yes, movement class for my oh-so-useful theater education)  wearing my leotard, legwarmers, and ripped off-the-shoulder-tee-shirt-ala-Flashdance and one of the boys said, "Hey, you look great.  Wow!"  At which point, filled with a neurotic Catholic girl's ambivalence about her sexual power, I probably went to the vending machine for a triple pack of Hostess Ho-Hos and a Pepsi. 

The other occasion I recall being very happy with my body was when I was when I was 41 and, after suffering several miscarriages, decided that if I wasn't going to be able to have another baby, I would at least get skinny.  I worked 10 weeks of the 12 week "Body for Life" program where I diligently exercised 6 days a week, completing cardio and weight lifting sessions on alternating days, and eating 6 small meals a day -- combining a carbohydrate and protein at each meal.  I lost 6 inches from my waist and could actually see the definition of my stomach muscles beneath my shrinking waistline.  I had energy, gained muscle and flexibility and... got pregnant - at which point I did a happy dance, went to Bakers Square for a slice of Hawaiian Strawberry Supreme Pie to celebrate and went home and sat on the couch to gestate. 

I have been unable and unwilling (if I am to fully embrace my ownership of and responsibility for my life) to sustain a healthy lifestyle since then.  That's not to say that I eat fast food on a daily basis or that I get absolutely no exercise or that I am outgrowing my size 14 clothes - but I fear that that possibility is just around the next Panera pecan roll corner. 

The time surrounding my son's diagnosis of autism to the present day has been stressful.  My fear, uncertainty and overwhelming intermittent sense of failure and inadequacy surrounding his treatment, education and future sit heavily on my heart and guilt center.  Guilt center -- I just made that up.  Change the spelling and I picture a beautiful little gold-leaf frame right next to my heart, oozing with blue guilt goo.  I digress.  My point is, I tend to eat my stress.  For four days prior to my last period, I ate a Panera Bread pecan roll or bear claw or both on a daily basis.  Yesterday, I zipped into 7-11 to get some cash for the babysitter and also pick up a quick Nestle-Quick Chocolate Milk and a big 7-11 Cinnamon Roll.  And, though my preference of unhealthy yet delicious snacks currently takes the form of the baked goods variety, I do not limit my indulgences to the flour-butter-eggs-milk-sugar-cooked-in-an-oven goodies.  Last week, I bought chocolate covered pretzels and brought them home and ate them all and Monday night, after having dinner with some friends, I drove through Wendy's and bought a large Chocolate Frosty in all it's freezy, frosty chocolaty sweet badness.

Intellectually, I know the necessary steps to gain physical health and reduce stress.  I am also aware that the whole, "How-can-you-take-care-of-anyone-else-if-you-don't-take-care-of-yourself-first?" question makes sense.  Yet, here I sit and here I eat - a lovely homemade Thai chicken pizza that I made from scratch and warmed up for lunch because no one else in my house likes it, by the way. 

Look, here are my secrets, concerns, comforts and foibles on the proverbial table for all of us to take a look at them in their weighty glory.  I am not always in turmoil over my satisfaction or lack thereof with my body weight.  It's just that, I am almost 48 years old and want to feel good in my own skin for once - or rather, for thrice.  And ultimately, I know my eating is not about food, but probably about getting some oh-so-temporary relief from my awareness that the only thing that is certain in life is uncertainty.  I'm sorry, that previous statement was pretentious and intellectually dishonest.  Ultimately, I think my compulsive eating has to do with wanting escape and my desire to do what I feel like doing when I want to do it and f*@! the consequences.  Wait, untlimately, my eating does not serve my sense of well-being.  Geeze, the genetic component in my son's autism rears its obvious, ironic and ugly head. 

It's hard to keep my secret compulsive eating secret now that I've posted it here.  I'm trying to think of an analogy here about how revealing a secret takes away its power, but the only thing that comes to mind is Samson getting his hair cut by Delilah and losing his strength, which is only analogous with a very long bungee cord.  I'd love to hear about your struggles with self-care.   Anyone at the table with me here?