Chronicles of a Late Bloomer

It has finally happened.

I knew the news wouldn’t be good, but (I figured) it’s better to know the Truth and proceed from there, no? No. The Truth is that when I stepped onto my scale — something which I had not deigned to do since August — it did not give me a number that I could plug into my now-defunct spreadsheet.

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Boyfriend-Semi-Ex-Semi-Boyfriend asked this morning, when we woke up to the following email from WeightWatchers.com, “Did they implant that chip in your head when you paid the membership fee?”

The email was titled, Simple Ways to Get Back on Track. It felt like irony, after last night’s little meltdown — admissions of self-loathing, pokes and pinches of my belly and thighs, and my own not-so-little pity party. Simple ways to get back on track? Meet my middle finger.

I never want to have to think about The Track again. I hate The Track. Good Lord Almighty I hate this idea that you are always either on or off The Track. It’s so self-punishing. Maybe I don’t hate The Track. Maybe I just hate myself.

Last time I visited my parents, I had lost 25 pounds from my starting weight. In contrast to the pajamas and slippers that I prefer to wear on travel days (C’mon. You’ll never see any of those people again…), I was wearing a cute, “slimming” (one of my least favorite words) blouse, a cute pair of heels, and had straightened my hair because I was to meet the two Rachels right after the flight. I sat in the airport, sketching in my journal and waiting for boarding call when a man came and asked me for the time. I scarcely looked up when I answered, and continued with my little painting.

Then, our flight was rerouted and we all had to re-check-in at the desk. As I stood in line, the man approached me again. He became very chatty. At some point, I looked up and noticed that he was not bad looking. In fact, he was sort of cute. And he wouldn’t stop talking to me. Then he touched me a few times — on the shoulder, the elbow, etc. — and called me “pretty lady.” He flirted nicely, without being heavy handed. He was just… I don’t know. Interested.

We were then separated, and I boarded the plane alone. I asked the greeting flight attendant for a seat belt extender as I do on every flight. She looked me up and down — slimming blouse, cute hair, recently flirted-on — and said, “Well, it doesn’t look like you’ll need it!” Of course, I did. But, it was incredible to hear.

Flirty Man and I re-connected at the baggage claim after the flight. He asked how long I’d be on vacation, and let me know his travel plans. I, having a boyfriend, didn’t offer him my number, though now I wish I had. He sensed my hesitation and didn’t ask. Boyfriend and I had just started the long process of fighting and breaking up. Flirty Man was cute. His name was Scott. He was an executive chef. Chefs are hot.

So was I, that day, apparently.

I’ve now gained back about 15 of those original pounds, and it showed on this week’s flights to and from my parents’ house. On the first, I had an aisle seat (my preference, since I can hang out any, er… extraneous body parts into the aisle until the food service cart comes by and not be such a hassle to the people seated next to me), but that wasn’t quite good enough. The young couple occupying the row looked up when I pushed my carry-on under the seat. They then exchanged a wordless look (which I’ll mercifully refrain from interpreting), and promptly traded seats with each other. This put the bigger, muscle-ier, wider male next to the window, and the slight, wispy female in the middle, next to me.

“Whatever,” I thought. I then engaged my seatbelt extender and proceeded to twist and contort my limbs in such a way throughout the flight that I hoped I would appear or feel or, I don’t know, smell less offensive. I also threw out my back in the process. Owie, and welcome home.

On the flight back, I realized at check-in that I was stuck in the middle of the row. Through the wonders of modern technology, I then learned that there were 4 similar seats still available on the flight, and one window seat next to an empty middle. Further investigation revealed this window seat to be on an exit row — which I’ve always heard offer more legroom — and, at 6′1″ tall, I thought that might be a nice compromise.

It was, until I realized two things:

1. The armrests in exit rows don’t lift up and out of the way of my fluffy, fat ass.
2. The window-side armrest was bolted into the emergency door in such a way as to resemble a forest fungus or otherwise awkward-ly placed ledge. It was superbly uncomfortable.

Is it really possible that this is the difference 15 pounds can make? On a 330-pound frame, does 15 pounds really make that big of a difference? Or is it just that I walked, talked, dressed, and acted like a thinner person? Was it my attitude that led to being hit on and complimented by people? Was it my attitude that led to my later frustrations?

How much of this is in my head? How much of it is in the airline industry’s corporate policies? How much belongs to the greater society at large and how much belongs to the power of my own positive (or negative) thinking?

I know that airplane seats are uncomfortable for all but the slimmest of folks. I know that I am not alone in this airplane problem, but it is a good illustration for me of the changes that have occurred in my body in the 4 months since I’ve been actively mindful about food and exercise. It’s not just the 15 pounds that have returned — it is my old attitudes and thoughts and frustrations.

I am writing from the airport, where I’ll be traveling back home to California after an unexpected family funeral. The last time I visited my family — in April (and documented here) — was the last time I was really “on program” with my eating. It’s cliche, but going home always derails me. My hope is that this trip will, well, rail me again.

My parents have faithfully followed their new eating program for over a month now, and are seeing some results. Mom has lost nearly 20 pounds and dad at least 10. He didn’t weigh himself at the beginning, but his belt now needs a new notch and his pants ride dangerously low. The part of me that is proud of them really is bigger than the part of me that is jealous and frustrated, but both parts exist.

The television screens hanging from airport ceilings are playing CNN, and CNN is reporting on Binge Eating Disorder. Ironic. Just as I sit down to reflect on my eating patterns and try to prepare myself for re-improving them, CNN jabs me in the ribs with her bony elbow. Yeah, yeah. I hear you.

Did I tell you that my therapist is moving? My therapist of 4+ years — 2.5 of which were spend in twice weekly sessions — is leaving the state. We have been in the long process of what we psychotherapists like to call “termination.” It’s terribly macabre, I think, to turn a business transaction into a metaphor for death and murder, but there it is. We don’t even call it “expiration,” which implies some passive, fault-free end. At any rate, I have been all over the map, emotionally, about termination with her. I think it finally all winds up in the first week of September.

Part of ending with her, of course, involves plans and recommendations for the future. My therapist works at an eating disorder clinic when she’s not at her private practice, and she has tried to refer me to that clinic before. Several times. It’s an “intensive outpatient” experience — just this side of residential treatment — and would involve a sizeable outlay of cash (which may or may not be subsidized by my insurance) plus 3-4 nights a week for 3-4 hours of individual, group, family, art recreational, and other therapies. There are nutritionists, exercise physiologists, yoga instructors, financial consultants, and dieticians on staff as well.

My therapist swears by this place, and has seen many people be able to turn their eating disorders around. I, for my part, am skeptical still. If nothing else, the money and time commitments are daunting. I’d have to stay totally on top of my shit, work-wise and budget-wise. I’m not sure I’m prepared for a close-up magnification of all of these issues. Not while I’m still trying to keep my own clients afloat, that is. I’m also not convinced that my family will be willing to participate in mandatory family sessions — and how would they? They are three states away.

These are the things that have kept me from enrolling in treatment there on the other times she’s recommended it. Now, though, I won’t have therapy with her, either. This means I won’t be paying her (and, since I pay out of pocket, this will free up funds, indeed) but I also won’t have her emotional support (which, I predict, will create a big void). Anyway, I’m thinking about it. More to come, I’m sure.

Of course, plenty has happened in the month since we talked. Here is a bulleted brief:

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I packed lunch and dinner for myself today. It’s the first time I’ve done so in over a month. Maybe two. That was the secret to my good eating at the beginning of the year — taking the time to nurture and care for myself in all kinds of ways, including by preparing and packing my own meals — and yet, I’ve let it all go to the wayside. I don’t want to care for myself anymore and I’m having a little tantrum about it today.

It’s childish and I’ve spend thousands of dollars in therapy exploring this urge, but I still have the hidden fantasy that someday, somehow, someone else will take care of me. I think it comes from having too many siblings and always having to fend for myself, but regardless of where it comes from, there it is. I want my boss, my neighbor, my boyfriend, my dog, my parents, my friends, and my congressman to take care of me.

Maybe, I sometimes think, all I have to do is find the right person, and then I’ll be taken care of for life! Really, doesn’t that sound like someone you’d want to be in a relationship with? Someone to latch onto you and suck the life and energy and money out of you forever and ever amen?

Yeah. Me, too.

Today I am trying to be adult enough to realize that this is not going to happen. That it is up to me. Life goes on. Pack your own damn lunch, Mal.

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I feel fat.

Probably because I am.

I just walked out of a session with a teenaged client who cycles in and out of depression. Over the past 2 years, we’ve managed to even out her roller-coaster existence into a series of shallow dips. Without the drama of violent mood swings, however, she’s now being expected to perform at a higher level. This, she complains, is annoying. She no longer receives special treatment when she’s feeling this way.

I counter her frustration with a bulleted list (of course). After all — we’ve been all over the psycho-socio-emotional reasons behind her depression. Big insight wasn’t the ticket tonight. She and her parents have made immense progress already and I felt that all she needed was a little fine tuning.

I explain that when she slides into the now-shallow valley of her mood cycle, she needs to rally the troops and do extra things in order to take care of herself. She has to fortify her defenses against the gravity of her depression to keep from sliding further down — to put extra effort into treading water so she doesn’t sink. The list of reminders that we develop together is so basic, so obvious, and motivational that I have sat at my desk for 15 minutes, reading and re-reading it.

1. Watch for signs and take action ASAP.
   
2. Sleep as much as possible.
   
3. Eat well.
   
4. Exercise.
   
5. Communicate and express in healthy ways.
   • Talk to friends and family.
   • Ask for what you need.
   • Don’t be afraid of the hard questions.
   • Write in your journal.
   • Be creative and make things.

The curse of being a therapist: it’s really hard to take your own advice. The blessing: you get slapped upside the head with it over and over and over again.

Inhale, close your eyes, exhale, stretch… April is over and May is a New Day.

Sure, the world came crashing down around me in April, but I also allowed myself to make a few critical errors. Here they are, for your voyeuristic enjoyment. (It’s like watching a wreck, isn’t it? You just can’t look away, and the bulleted lists just keep coming.)

• I asked too many people for advice. As much as I love to get other people’s perspectives on things and challenge my own, the tension of conflicting advice added more sense of uncertainty and desperation to a month packed with Unknowns.
  
• I lived too much in the future. For me, one sign of psychic trouble is that I start making big plans for the future, and getting caught up in the minutia of these imaginary plans. If I catch myself looking at apartment listings for another city, then I know I’m in trouble.
  
• I ignored my basic physical needs. I didn’t sleep enough, exercise, go on walks with the dog, or consider the nutritional quality of my intake at all (just the bulk and quantity of it). As a result, my energy dwindled, I became mildly depressed, and generally felt like garbage day in and day out. At a time when I could have used clarity of mind and a surplus of energy, I acted as though my brain resided in a disembodied head. Not helpful.
  
• I did not self-care. In spite of constantly lecturing my clients about self-care, I utilized none of my self-care secrets this month. I didn’t journal, paint, garden, walk the dog, or do anything besides call and talk with friends and loved ones (see above re: too much conflicting advice). I know better than that.
  

The good news is that MAY IS A NEW DAY. Just for today, I’m going to try to correct my mistakes. I will take things one step at a time. I will eat a veggie omelette for breakfast.

* * * UPDATED * * *

Behold, success! Veggie omelette smothered in green sauce with a side of strawberries. I’m a little late for work, but screw it. I needed the omelette for my morale alone. Hello, May. Welcome to my home, won’t you take a seat?

I have continued to track my daily weight and average it for the past month, in spite of wishing that April would just die a horrible death and be done with it. I am an emotional eater, and I do pretty well when my stress level rides between 60% and 80%, but I have not yet built up alternative coping mechanisms for when my stress skyrockets past that point. This month:

1. I have faced the possibility of breaking up.
   
2. I have traveled to my parents’ house for a visit.
   
3. I have gotten behind on work to a degree proportional to the visit home.
   
4. I have attended more than a dozen job interviews.
   
5. I have survived a serious health scare.
   
6. I have managed my family’s feelings about a gay brother who just came out.
   
7. I have learned that my current roommate will be moving out and, without a definitive answer about jobs or locations, I am back in the business of finding a new roommate.
   
8. I have hospitalized 2 of my clients for suicidal threats.
   
9. I have braved some serious financial difficulties.
   
10. I have begun to consider serious future plans, including PhD applications, licensure, and moving. A big move. Like, a state-to-state move. Again.

Ironically, we could have stopped at number one and still capped out my 80% stress threshold, so you can see where things got out of whack for me.

Part of this whole project is about getting to know and understand my body better. How does she respond to illness? To stress? To happiness? What happens to her during my monthly cycle? How does she respond when I have good days or bad days?¹

Here’s what I’m learning.

• My body’s “natural” weight when I’m bingeing is around 340 pounds.
  
• My body’s “natural weight” when I’m not bingeing (but not really restricting my food and not exercising) is around 315 pounds.
  
• My body (or my mind? or both?) has some sort of plateau around 300 pounds that is hard to break through.
  
• My body does not seem to respond well to sugars, due in large part to the diagnosis of PCOS that I’ve had for over a decade.
  
• My body gains around 3-5 pounds each month during pms, then releases it plus a few more pounds if I can more or less stay on track throughout.

As a final thought, I’ll mention that the late-blooming orchid is still full of billowy flowers, which show no sign of so much as wilting. In the meantime, another of the orchids from the front window is sending out an arm full of buds.

This metaphor — of starting over with fresh starts and building on previous lessons in the meantime — is not lost on me.

1. By this, I mean emotionally good/bad days, and not good/bad eating days, since I don’t assign value judgments to foods. [↩]