We’ll start with the good news: I have been on a really aggressive and restrictive diet for the past week. It’s been…an adjustment…to say the least, but I have lost 8 lbs and 5 inches in that week.
And before you say anything, let me stop you right here and say, “I know.” This is not my first rodeo. I know all about it. Your advice is, and I say this with no acrimony whatsoever, not welcome. You can’t help me. No one can help me. The only person that can help me is me. And I’m doing it this way because that’s the only way that I can move forward at this time. So, 8 lbs and 5 inches.
I learned a few things about myself that I thought I’d share with you. In chronological order, here it is:
1. The Body-Mass Index is bullshit.
You know about the BMI? The chart that looks at your height
and your weight and tells you how fat you are, and what your ideal weight
should be? I’m sure it was established in the 1950s when everyone ate the same
things and food was all real and not chemically-laden, but even still…according
to the BMI, I should ideally weight 202 lbs.
Look, I weighed 202 pounds in the sixth grade, okay? I’ve always looked at that number and thought, “there’s no WAY I can get down to that.”
Well, we did some calculations and some body scanning prior to
the diet, and I found out that my lean muscle mass (the bones, muscles, organs—the
stuff that is essentially me) is 225 lbs. That means that if I had zero body fat,
I would weigh about 230 lbs. A much more realistic number for me to hit is now
looking like somewhere between 235 and 250 lbs. That’s more doable (in my head)
and far less daunting.
2. I stress eat WAY more than I thought
Sure, everyone says that, but no, you don’t understand. It’s gotten bad. This year, for some reason, has been really triggering for me. Probably the allergies. Yeah, that’s it. Anyway…I realized this when I was waiting in line at Walmart last Saturday to pay for some felt tip pens. The self-checkout is shut down because of The Covid, and so I was behind a couple who had a basket full of shit and had broken said basket into three separate transactions. They were being helped by a woman with nothing but time on her hands. Boop…Boop…Boop…Boop…
Every time she slowly and carefully swiped an item from the
conveyer belt and into a plastic sack, a little piece of my soul died and flaked
off and fell to the floor. In desperation, I cast my gaze about, looking for
something to stick the pieces back together and came down with “I’m hungry, I
need a candy bar.”
Then I stopped myself, because I wasn’t hungry. And I damn sure didn’t “need” a candy bar. This diet is not one that allows for snacks outside of the designated eating times, so I was forced to wait in line and stew in my own juices and realize that anytime I have a hole in my chest from anxiety or stress, I will stuff it with a burrito much in the same way a combat field medic shoves gauze into a bullet wound to staunch the bleeding. Only I’m not bleeding. I’m just an emotional wreck.
Food has always been a hug for me, going way back. When I
didn’t get what I wanted, I pivoted to food. This was a bad thing, and I’m
embarrassed that it went on as long as it did, and that it has done so much damage
to me. That’s what all this is about; reversing the damage and living a
Now I eat every three hours. I have special astronaut food designed to facilitate ketosis. I have supplements. I drink water. A lot of water. A gallon plus every day. If I’m not eating, or about to eat, I am peeing. It’s going to be like this for a while. I need to lose a lot of weight, as quickly as possible without causing myself any harm.
It just means that all of the emotions and feelings I’ve
been papering over with tortillas are now on my sleeve and very easy to get to.
This week has been a nightmare. But hey, at least I wasn’t hungry during all of
the crying and wailing I did.
Meanwhile, Cathy continues to decline, bit by bit. This weekend is going to be a real problem for me. She is having a get-together in Hospice to say goodbye to some close friends and family, while she still can. On the one hand, she is moving towards acceptance of her situation and that’s a good thing for her, because it cuts down on her day-to-day anxiety. On the other hand, I have enough daggers in my chest without walking into the axe throwing arena, and that’s what this will be. I need to be there, and I will be, with Sonya, the wonder pooch. But hearing Cathy saying goodbye to people is exactly the kind of thing that will have me chewing off my own arm until I can get to a cheeseburger. And that cheeseburger will not materialize, so I’m going to be unhinged for the weekend.
I appreciate everyone who continues to check in on me and ask about Cathy. I just don’t have anything good to say right now.