Chronicles of a Late Bloomer

My therapist asked me yesterday if I had any concept of what it would be like to weigh under 300 pounds. Now, I’m a smart girl with a very rich imagination. I’m an artist, who likes to explore new concepts and push the boundaries of reality and thought. I’m a researcher, who enjoys envisioning new frontiers.

But, no. Try as I might, sitting there in her office, I just couldn’t imagine life at anything under 300 pounds. Sure, I hemmed and hawed a bit. I mused about the carefully built persona that didn’t care about weight — a desperate defense against what I was doing to my body. I explained that for years I’ve derided scales and weight-loss programs and fashion magazines.

I honestly have no idea how much I weighed when I graduated from high school. I remember wearing a size 18 dress to Sophomore Slide with Chris Adams when I was 16 years old, and I got some mileage out of that dress for another year or so after that, but I also remember plumping out of it. I think the chemistry of my body really began to change, and I experienced my first true bout with depression, at the end of high school and beginning of college. The collision of those two events produced what I can only assume was a rapid acquisition of 100 pounds or more. I’ve kept those 100 around (plus or minus 20-30 of their brothers and sisters) ever since.

It wasn’t long before I outgrew the average bathroom scale which, as is advertised right there on their cheerless dial faces, do not weigh anything over 300 pounds. Sometimes I got curious, but I was never able to get an accurate reading except at the doctor’s office, and even then I usually asked them not to tell me.

But, as my therapist pointed out, with all of this occurring around the end of high school, I’ve never in my adult life experienced a body that weighed less than 300 pounds. I can’t imagine a job interview, a first date (which occurs anywhere but at a gymnasium dance), or a rent payment made with anything other than a body weighing over 300 pounds. Not to mystify the number or assign too much significance to it, but… man. That’s going to be quite the head trip.

I don’t actually know how much my highest weight was. I do know that it was over 350. The doctor’s scale only measured up to 350 so, when I stepped on it and obviously hung far past the 350 mark, the kind nurse simply wrote “360?” on the chart and walked away. I imagine that it was more like 370. Anything below 330 is completely new territory for me.

It’s terrifying.

I was all caught in traffic today and so arrived so late to my meeting that they had already locked the doors and were closing out the register. Fortunately, I had a $10 bill and they had 5 pennies for change so they let me sneak in, pay, and get weighed. I felt sorry to miss the meeting, because I’d like to experience different kinds of leaders, but at least they let me get my benchmark.

The benchmark? I weigh 315.8 pounds. That’s down 9.8 pounds from last week, and 24.2 pounds overall. Unbelievable. I thought it might happen, since last week’s loss of only 0.2 pounds came in the middle of my period, but geez. I just completely sailed past the milestone of “my lowest adult weight” without even sneezing, blinking, or tossing a look over my shoulder.

If my goal is to lose 140 pounds (and, for now, it is), I’m 17.3% of the way there.

It seems that I lose weight from the outside in. That is, I’m seeing visible differences in my very extremities first. My fingers, feet, arms, calves. My therapist (and, granted, she is the only person who knows about all of this and so is the only person that knows what to look for) says she mostly notices it in my neck, shoulders, and jawline. Again, we’re working from the outside in.

My rings no longer fit right. The Superman ring that T gave me 7 years ago (!!!) migrated from my ring finger to my middle finger in 2000 when I went completely no-carb for 6 weeks. This week, it had to be moved from my middle finger to my index finger. I sort of like it there, honestly. It has a very tough, “Just you try that stuff with me” sort of feel to it when I make a fist. But, the point is, my rings don’t fit right. The square, 7-band ring that I bought in Mexico not 3 months ago no longer fits, either. Gotta love those extremities, yes, but this habit could get very, very expensive.

Yesterday, I was driving with both hands on the wheel and, out of nowhere, became completely occupied with staring at my wrists. They seemed so… square. Not round and plump like I’m used to. They are showing the first indications of bone under all that flesh — a strange, hard bump growing on the outer edge of either wrist. My fingers seem long. Tall for their age. Strong. Lean.

My ankles and feet, too, seem to have a new shape. I lie on my bed and lift them straight in the air to examine — it’s the same thing. They look like actual ankles. Like average ankles. With curves and nooks and everything. I mean, I wouldn’t say average per se… but at this, the lowest weight of my adult life, they look more like the ankles you see on TV than they ever have before.

It’s a happy thing, yes, but also a bit unnerving. There I am, heading west on Wilshire, and the only thing I can think is, “Whose arms are those?” Next to come are collarbones, cheekbones, and knees.

I’ve had an unpredictably difficult therapy week. Things have been good, you know? Things have been really good since all of this new eating began. For someone with an eating disorder that stretches back nearly 30 years, it’s been a remarkably smooth transition into eating more carefully and being accountable for it. Perhaps too smooth and, of course, I’m talking about those fears with my therapist.

What happens when I fall? I know I’ll fall. I’m not saying I’ll fall beyond repair, but I know there will be slips. What happens, though, if this doesn’t work? If all of this changing doesn’t actually give me my health back? What happens if I lose all of the weight and have to face the fact that my problems are still there. They’re still the same.

But, you know, those fears weren’t too big. Not until I went to mention them to my therapist. Mostly, I didn’t want her (or me, or anyone else) to get complacent about just how complicated I feel inside now that my outside was beginning to behave itself. She agreed. She said, “Mal, I’ve been working at an eating disorder clinic for years now. I understand that you’re more fragile now than maybe you’ve ever been before. I understand that.”

She warned me that I may start to feel like a ticking time bomb — that I may feel raw, and like my emotions are dragging me all over the map. She said I might feel unexpected anger, or sadness, or rage, or hurt. All of this will happen, she said, because I am no longer using food to medicate those feelings away. I’m without my standard armor, so to speak.

When she said it, I hadn’t felt it yet. I’d felt good. I’d felt like I was pretty much on top of my schoolwork. I’d felt like I was competent in my internship, and capable in the research for my thesis. But, she’s right. I am without my armor. And, only by talking about how very real that was did the truth of it hit me.

And I had a mini binge last night. It wasn’t anywhere near the standard of binging that I am accustomed to. I went to dinner with my friend Einat where I got a salad, yes, but also a steamed milk with almond syrup. The salad was big and included delicious gargonzola cheese. And some raspberry dressing. And mandarin oranges. It was semi-healthy, I guess, but not overly. The steamed milk probably contained their standard amount of almond syrup, but after weeks of eating well and not having sweets, man. It tasted like straight sugar. (Note to self: next time ask for half the amount or less — just a drizzle will do.) I also had a little piece of baguette that came with the salad and I broke it into little pieces and let it soak in the sweet milk. It was sooooo good. It was a little treat for myself.

I often go to eat with Einat on Fridays, our day off, where we talk about school and research and theories that must bore the pants off of anyone within hearing range. I allow myself these meals out with her. They are basically the only time I get to go out, and I try to order sensibly. But, I also allow myself a little treat. Hell, I have all week to let the treat work itself out of my system before the next weigh-in. There’s no harm.

So, I don’t know if it was the intense therapy sessions, or the super-sweet treat, but I just had this drive to eat when I got home. I know I wasn’t hungry, but I just wanted to eat. I had a full bag of microwave popcorn — but the buttered kind. Seems like I may have had something else, too, but I’m not remembering at the moment. At any rate, my belly felt sick. I went to bed.

Today is a bit better, but I still feel raw. I still have cramps. I’m still on edge. I feel disconnected from my body. I’m processing the fears that were hiding until I articulated them.

Honestly? At first I was mad at my therapist for bringing them up. For not just letting me have a few months of feeling good about things. Why couldn’t she just leave well enough alone? But, I’m not paying her to leave well enough alone. And, she knows what she’s doing. And I adore her and we have a great working relationship. And she’s just not going to let me get away with my junk. She’s not going to sit back while I act like everything’s great. That’s what makes her so wonderful.

It just that it’s also what makes me feel raw.

To say “I’m menstrual” is a real understatement for someone who has PCOS and only gets their period once every 3 or 4 months. At any rate, the trauma that it puts my body through is explanation enough for having lost only .2 pounds in a near-perfect eating week. I’m not worried about it. Bodies are funny and the general direction is down so what do I care? Interested to see what happens next week, and if I can keep staving off the crazy cravings that we’re now chalking up to the bleed. Oy.

Still, I didn’t gain. That’s pretty incredible, considering all.

Okay. Let’s face it. This week, it’s all about the spinach frittata that I concocted.

A cup or so of spinach (either frozen that’s been thawed and the water squeezed out, or fresh torn into little pieces and wilted over low flame for a few minutes). Use a small, non-stick frying pan that’s safe to go from stovetop to oven. Take ten or so grape tomatoes, sliced in half lengthwise, and sautee in a tiny little drizzle of oil or a few squirts of cooking spray. Flip the tomatoes now and again, but let them sit on the heat long enough to get crispy in spots. Season the tomatoes — I use oregano, thyme and rosemary, chili powder, cumin, or whatever else strikes me at the moment.

Spread the tomatoes around in an even layer in the bottom of the pan.

In a bowl beat two eggs (or one egg and one egg white, or three egg whites, whatever works), the spinach, and 1/2 to 3/4 cup of nonfat cottage cheese. You can also add a teaspoon or so of finely-grated parmesan, if you have it. Or a scoop of low-fat riccota. Whisk it together and cover the tomatoes with the mixture right in the saucepan. Cook on low to medium heat without stirring or flipping the frittata. After it’s cooked for a while (you’ll see it set up from the edges in about an inch), take it off the stove and put it in the oven on about 350 degrees for 10 or so minutes until it’s cooked through. You can finish it off with a little broil if you feel like it. Makes the top crispy. These are approximate numbers, so just keep your eyes and nose open until it’s done.

This is the perfect amount of food. It fits so nicely on the small new plates I got. I top it off with sliced avocado and/or plain yogurt. This morning, I covered it in chile verde sauce. Holy frijole, this is such a good breakfast. I love it with some sliced fresh pear. Mmmm.b

I’d been casually thinking of goals — not with any prompting or from any sense of “should,” but just in the natural course of things and in the wake of the mind-bogglingly-quick and surely-temporary progress I’ve made so far.

It wasn’t a big leap to start thinking about goals; I’m already looking for an excuse to not go to WW meetings. That seems like a fine enough reward for my first goal. It’s not that I dislike the meetings so much, but that it’s not really me and it costs so much money. It wouldn’t be so much money, if I weren’t a grad student living off of financial aid and facing winter.

Also, I can’t even bring myself to say the words “Weight Watchers.” Not even in therapy, where I can say anything. It’s just too terrible. I’ll be very grateful for the kick-start that I’ve received there, but I just simply can’t see myself paying and attending meetings there every week for the year and a half to two years that I estimate it will take to drop to a reasonable level.

Anyway, I thought this week, “Once I get down to the point where I can weigh myself at home, I’ll probably quit going to meetings.” Mostly, I’m motivated to go for the once-a-week weigh-in and for the overall structure of the eating plans. The standard bathroom scale only measures up to 300 pounds. Even still, it’s good for me to not own one because it keeps me from the obsessive weighing habit that would surely be part of my neuroses. I dunno. I’ll explore this with my therapist.

In the meantime, here is the first draft of the goals that I managed to jot down last night.

1. 310 = join curves
   
2. 300 = angel dvd’s
   
3. 290 = buy my own scale, re-think weight watchers
   
4. 280 = road trip to Seattle
   
5. 270 = open web site
   
6. 260 = alias dvd’s
   
7. 250 = join a gym
   
8. 240 = new digital camera
   
9. 230 = laser hair removal
   
10. 220 = bookbinding press
    
11. 210 = new bed
    
12. 200 =
    
13. 190 = board shear
    
14. 1 year of maintaining 190 = lasik surgery (if brave enough!)
    
15. 2 years of maintaining 190 = new car (hybrid or hydrogen or something)
    

I go through food phases. I know I’m not the only person who does this, but my phases seem pretty out there. I can eat the same thing (or vacillate between the same two things) for weeks on end. Right now it’s whole wheat pasta (preferably penne, rigatoni, or fusilli) with homemade sauce and meatballs (a la Denise).

The homemade sauce is a secret recipe from the Italian roommate I had in Boston. She was Italian, yes, but also a major health nut. She had taken her mom’s recipes and altered them. The sauce is mostly a filler of sauteed eggplant but also includes fresh Italian parsley and finely grated parmesan and is slow-cooked for at least 12 hours.

The meatballs are a mixture of ground turkey and low fat ground beef. She used to use breadcrumbs and the same parmesan with wild abandon. I substituted cooked cous cous for the breadcrumbs with really great results (although next time I think I will use uncooked couscous and see if the texture is dramatically different). Then, the meatballs are baked in a shallow foil-lined pan, rather than fried. She’d make huge batches of each recipe, freeze the bulk in small containers, and then just thaw a little at a time so it always tasted fresh. Man! I miss Denise!

I’m still in search of good recipes for: soy-sauce based drizzle or teriyaki sauce, a way to use the white beans and lentils that I cooked up, and other quick recipes with ingredients that are easily prepared ahead of time.

Well, today was the first official one-week weigh-in. One week to the minute, in fact. In that one week, I lost another 4.8 pounds. This includes pizza with Kiri and Brenda when they were here this weekend and the dumpload of oil from Subway Sandwich’s ordering-coherency mishap. It includes the four teaspoons of peanut butter I sucked down when I didn’t have time to go for groceries, the cookie and chips in Thursday’s provided lunch, and a few less notable indiscretions.

I haven’t really talked about this because I know there are so many people that work and work and work to lose weight. I know there are blood, sweat, and tears involved most of the time, and that most people eek by on a good week with a 1-pound loss. It just reminds me of how badly I’ve been treating my body, and for how long. Once I simply started thinking about eating better, my body threw up its hands, shouted “Glory Hallelujah!”, and started letting go of all the junk.

(The best part of that whole sentence is that my body actually has hands. Heh.)

Anyway, I’m sure this crazy loss momentum will eventually slow down, but for now it’s a bit intense to think of the following things:

1. I’m over 10% of the way toward my ultimate goal.
   
2. I’m halfway to the first Weight Watcher’s goal which, for some ungodly and indecipherable reason, is to lose 10% of your starting body weight. I prefer to think in terms of the amount of weight I intend to lose, rather than the entire bulk sum of my body — pre- and post- care. Weird.
   
3. As of this week, I am the lowest weight I’ve been since… since… I don’t know when. Since probably my first year of college, previous to which I was no skinny minnie either. Never have been.

4.8 more pounds. It seems too good to be true. Spent my entire therapy session talking about the fears which have already started to raise their head. Fears about failure, about any success being suspicious. About the too-good-to-be-true factor. About not knowing how to live in a new body, should that new body ever arrive. (It’s been on backorder for so long.)

Yesterday was a hard day. I find myself wanting to exert more and more control over what I eat — like with the Subway Sandwich guy on Sunday. Yesterday was an all-day training for schools counselors and lunch was provided. I knew it might well be something I didn’t want to eat, but I also didn’t want to set a bad precedent or exacerbate what might otherwise look like eating disorder behaviors, so I didn’t take any “Mal-friendly” food with me when I went.

Sure enough, lunch was Subway Sandwiches (again! I took the least intrusive turkey on white) with chips and cookie. Did I have to take chips and a cookie? No. Did I anyway? Yes. But I only ate one cookie and I only had half the bag of chips. Did I take a juice or soda? No. At least I can say that. And I ate slowly. And sketched during lunch. And it was okay.

But I’m working through the reality that this is just the way things are. I’ll be faced with these situations all the time. Next time, I’ll choose between the chips and cookie, but I don’t feel overly bad for handling it the way I did.

Today, I brought lunch to work. Usually I don’t mind temperature differences too much (like, eating meatballs from the fridge or unrefrigerated carrots) but for some reason today’s lunch just didn’t work when it wasn’t 100% fresh. Too bad.

Tomorrow morning is the next weigh-in. Early. I wonder if that meeting time will continue to work for me? After weigh-in, I’m going to breakfast with Einat. Again, faced with a situation where I’ll just have to make the best choice possible.

I have supervision tonight. I hope I don’t get hungry between here and there and back again. There are just too many fast food places and cash burning a hole in my pocket.

Disappointment because my client didn’t show. Need to check my emotions and not binge off of it.

I was just explaining to my therapist about how even though I’ve lost 11.4 pounds, it’ll take a while yet before people will begin to notice. In fact, judging by history, I can expect to lose 30, 35, or even 40 pounds before people start asking, “Are you losing weight?” I’m okay with that. I have a lot of weight to lose and people tend to just experience me as “big” — not “shades of big.” It reminds me of my first major in college — which was math, believe it or not. The day I decided to drop the major was the day they spent an entire class period explaining that there are differing variations of infinity. That some infinities can be bigger than others. Now, negative infinity (getting smaller and smaller and smaller forever) and positive infinity (getting bigger and bigger and bigger forever) are concepts that took me a while but I was able to grasp them. Having one infinity be smaller than another?

No. Thank. You.

Having said all that, I have to report a personal first: today, between classes, and only 11-some-odd pounds into it, Donna pulled me aside and asked, “Are you super stressed out? I’m worried about you. You look like you’ve lost some weight.” I gave her “points for keen observation,” chalked it up to her being a visual artist and, therefore, being intimately acquainted with lines and curves and angles, and then hugged her and thanked her madly.

No, it’s not from stress. It’s on purpose.