The Week in Shorthand

Learning disability. Lacking social skills. Bad associations/poor choices. “Girlfriend” troubles. Crazy family. Crazy friend. Car chase. Death threats against our whole family. Police called. Our house added to the nightly patrol route. Frustration. Chaos. Conflict. Crying. Panic attack. Hyperventilation. At my wit’s end.

God says, “Talk to Me.”

Pray, pray, pray, pray,
Pray, pray, pray.
Let my problems
All blow away.

Grown children with learning disabilities are a challenge. I have one. I also have control issues. I am convinced all our lives would turn out perfectly if everyone would just do exactly as I say: be friends with whom I say to be friends with, avoid whom I say to avoid. If only life were that simple.

What Do You Deserve?

A couple of afternoons ago I was making my afternoon snack when I caught myself in a dilemma. In my fruit basket were three apples that were well on their way to being rotten, but, since I  hate wasting food, I was battling with myself about whether to use the apples or not. I thought maybe I could just cut away the bad parts, and I justified that once I got it all mixed up with the Greek yogurt I probably wouldn’t be able to tell that it wasn’t as crunchy as I like my apples to be.

Then I was hit with another thought. “I deserve a fresh apple!”

If I can lie to myself and tell myself that I deserve a donut or a slice of cheesecake (or fill in the blank), why would I not let myself “deserve” a fresh, crunchy apple?

I tossed the three deteriorating apples into the trash can, after dissecting them to discover that there really wasn’t much there to be salvaged, and I cut into a fresh-from-the store, delightful, sweet Fuji apple.

This morning, I thought back to that moment when I told myself I deserved a fresh apple, and I remembered that I had seen a book on Amazon about food addiction (although I can’t find it now) entitled I Deserve This Donut and Other Lies I Tell Myself or something like that.

I got to thinking about what we are really telling ourselves we deserve when we cave in to a sugar addiction. Are we really telling ourselves we deserve a tasty treat or are we somehow telling ourselves that we deserve to die? Are we telling ourselves that we deserve all the junk we can shovel in? Because that’s what it is. Junk. And that’s what it’s doing to us: it’s killing us.

My husband saw an old classmate at Walmart earlier today. He had heard that he had “bad” diabetes (isn’t all diabetes bad?). Really, I guess part of what he had heard was that his friend had diabetes and wasn’t taking care of himself. He said the guy could barely move.

“He must have major issues with his feet and legs because he can hardly get around,” Chuck said.

Do I deserve that? Do you? What are we telling ourselves we deserve when we say “yes” to a few brownies? Something to think about.

Italy

No wonder I’m tired: I just earned the Italy badge on my Fitbit. I got this message in my email a couple of days ago: “By walking 736 miles–the entire length of Italy–you’ve stepped your way to another lifetime badge. That’s a colossal achievement.” It sounds like more of a colossal achievement than it actually is. This counts all the time with a Fitbit, the one my cousin sent to me, as well as the one I got for my birthday last year. Basically we’re talking about at least a year worth of everyday walking, and most people could walk the entire length of Italy in a year. The apostles could have walked the entire length of Italy probably four or five times in a year, and even that may be an understatement. Of course, they were men with a vision, and I don’t mean televisions.

Seriously, maybe it’s because I have low iron that I’m dragging most days. I tried to donate plasma on Monday, but they deferred me because my iron was too low. That’s what I get for being negligent in taking my vitamins.

Maybe it’s because things in motion tend to stay in motion, as the commercial says, and things at rest tend to stay at rest. I got out of the habit of my daily treadmill routine, and the serotonin in my brain took a direct hit.  If you don’t move, move, move things begin to atrophy, and then when you do move it’s harder to move. That’s where I am with my foot. I go to bed thinking that the next day I will turn it all around and get back on that treadmill. Then I wake up thinking that I don’t even want to get out of bed.

Maybe it’s because I struggle with depression. My mom did, and I wonder if it’s true of depression as it’s true of other things, that more is “caught” than “taught.” Or maybe it’s hereditary, even.

Of course, my husband always says, “What do you have to be depressed about?”

Nothing. If I had reasons to be depressed it wouldn’t be true depression. Truth be told, though, I have lots of underlying worries and stresses that I don’t deal with well. The book I’m still reading recommends having a good cry. I have trouble with that. I’m not a crier. Plus, I don’t dwell on what’s eating at me. If I have an unpleasant thought or concern about areas of my life (or more likely my children’s lives) I push it to the back burner of my mind. If you don’t dwell on it you don’t have to deal with it, because it’s painful to deal with it, but, if you don’t deal with it, it hovers over your head like a dark cloud and maintains some level of control over your life.

The other day I was delivering some jewelry to a friend. I walked into her place of business, and, before I walked through the door, I caught a glimpse of her through the window. If I was going by the expression she wore on her face, I would have guessed her whole world had caved in. She was having a rough day, to be sure. She had just found out that the house she had gotten approved for had slipped through her fingers. Her philandering ex-husband was taking retirement, and that meant that her alimony was going to be cut way back. In fact, she’s now afraid she won’t be able to make the rent payments on the duplex she lives in.

One of her daughters passed away several years ago and one is moving to another state.

She feels stuck. And defeated. And definitely concerned about an unstable future.

We had a cathartic visit, and she said that God had certainly sent me by at just the right time. She needed to talk to someone, and her boyfriend was busy at work and, due to the nature of his job, literally didn’t have time for her bombardment of texts.

Before I left we were both in tears a few times. It hurts my heart to see a friend in so much mental anguish, and it’s no place to stay for very long. I told her to focus on all the blessings in her life, on all the things she did have, not on the one thing she couldn’t have.  I hope I didn’t come across as blithe, but that was more than just a pat response to her dilemma.

Her mother had prayed that if she wasn’t meant to get this house that she wouldn’t get it. That’s all well and good, except she did get it, and then it was yanked back away from her by the bank that had initially told her and the sellers that she was good to go. Her ex-husband taking retirement and reducing her alimony below the court-ordered amount was the equivalent of his saying, “And, oh, by the way, here’s another jab to add to all the other pain I’ve inflicted on you over the years.”

She said, “I feel like he has won again. All the times I forgave him and took him back, and, now, he has everything and I have nothing.”

She said that she refused to let go of God. She said, “I may get mad and say that I’m done praying or this and that, but I won’t turn away from God.”

I told her that at least she had her health. She had her boyfriend. She has a place to live and a job. She has children. Granted, one of them died and one is about to move to another state, but she has children and grandchildren.

Some people do not have their health. I reminded her that some people only have a couple of months to live. Some people have cancer. If we feel good most of the time and don’t have to live with constant pain, we should thank God for that.

Sometimes the physical pain or the mental pain is too great for someone to bear and they even take their own lives because they can’t even see a glimmer of hope at the end of the tunnel. They see no end to their pain and they can’t see any relief in sight. At least she doesn’t have that.

Some people are homeless. They have no idea where their next meal is coming from, and their mind is consumed with where they can go to seek shelter from the sweltering summer sun or the frigid winter winds. She has her own place that she shares with her boyfriend.

I asked her if maybe she and her boyfriend could get married. Wouldn’t that make a difference if both their names could be on the house? But she said his credit was bad, and, if she got married, she wouldn’t get her pension when she turned sixty from her ex-husband’s company.

I reminded her that some people will never have children or grandchildren, and then I started tearing up and jokingly said, “Okay, I have to leave now.” And we both had a good laugh.

The truth is that not having grandchildren doesn’t bother me so much, but what does bother me is that my children may be denied the joy that children bring. Because of life’s circumstances, my daughter may never have children. She may never get married. She may always have to live in her parents’ house. I realize that this is therapeutic for me to write about, but I’m hesitant at the same time because I know that she reads my blog and I don’t want to bring all these back-burner thoughts to the front where we have to think about them and deal with them. Anyway, how can thinking about them change anything?

My daughter, Chelsea, actually is the poster child of just how bad things can get. She’s thirty-two, wheelchair-bound, lives with her parents, has a set income from SSI, has medical issues out the yin-yang, including a colostomy, a catheter coming out of her navel, and more of a likelihood of catching pneumonia or other respiratory ailments, just because she is always seated and doesn’t empty her lungs as completely as able-bodied people do. She caught H1-N1 (the swine flu) one year, and it really did a number on her. Some people ended up dying with that, if you’ll remember. The medication they put her on, after she came out of the hospital, gave her feelings of hopelessness, and she didn’t even want to be left alone long enough for us to go to Wednesday night Bible study–even though she was completely well enough and old enough, of course, to be left by herself.

Chelsea doesn’t drive, but she did get her permit when she was sixteen. She also bought a hand-control equipped car from a lady near St. Louis who had multiple sclerosis. It had a wheelchair compartment on top of the car, and an automated pully loaded and unloaded the wheelchair for her.

Chuck took her out driving a couple of times, but the stress was too much for her. She was scared to drive. On our first outing, with the whole family, somehow she ended up heading toward a ditch and then she just put her hands up over her face and started to cry.

Chuck said, “Can we at least get the car straightened out on the side of the road and then you can cry?”

Another time Chuck took her to an empty school parking lot so that she could practice there with no obstructions. I don’t know how that went, but I know that she didn’t feel comfortable driving.

Maybe we should have taken her to the city and enrolled her in a driving class for disabled individuals, but we both had jobs and would have had to take off work. Plus, the expense would have been a factor, too.

We had some rainy weather, and, during a visit from my dad, we took him out to show him the car. He had lent Chelsea the money to buy it. We were surprised to learn that the wheelchair compartment on the top of the car leaked and the whole inside of Chelsea’s car was soaked. It was awful. We had no garage at the time to keep the car in, and we eventually sold it to someone who stopped by our house, out of the blue, and offered us money for it.

I don’t want people to think Chelsea basically has no life because she does. She has flown on an airplane twice by herself to visit out-of-state friends. She has taken road trips with other friends. She has lunch with lots of different friends all the time–more than I do, actually. She works at a salon, and, although it’s a volunteer position, she does get all her shampoos, cuts, color and waxes free. She enjoys getting out and meeting people and being useful at the salon by answering the phone, keeping the appointment book and returning messages at the salon.

She has a couple of direct sales businesses: Perfectly Posh and LipSense. They aren’t booming businesses, but they are good products and she’s slowly building a customer base. Selling Perfectly Posh gives her a little extra pocket change for things she needs and things she wants. ( Https://ChelseaLacen.po.sh )

She keeps herself looking nice with her makeup and clothes and, of course, her perfect hair, a perk of working at a salon. Despite her life being riddled with medical challenges and other challenges that come from being in a wheelchair: not being able to go in some stores (like Claire’s) because the aisles are too small or too cramped to make turnarounds or going to a beach or moving through gravel or wet ground or even going to family get-togethers because most people have stairs and steps . Because of Chelsea and our Monday-night visits, my dad had a concrete ramp poured off the side of his front porch, but not everyone thinks (or cares enough) to do that.

Chelsea goes to work every day in her power chair. If it’s too cold or too hot or too rainy, sometimes we will take her in her van that was gifted to her by complete strangers. Long story here. The van had been given to their son, who had recently moved to a facility where transportation was provided. Because the van had been given to them, they wanted to also give it to someone who could used it.

It was a gift from heaven. The timing was perfect, too, completely orchestrated by God. She had just had her back-to-back surgeries and had spent almost the entire year in a convalescent long-term care facility. The gift of the van gave her something to look forward to. One of her friends from the Missouri Career Center, where Chelsea used to work, arranged a benefit for Chelsea at Pizza Hut and suggested that we start a Go-Fund-Me page to help get the van equipped for the road: new tires, seat adjustment, the wheelchair door fixed, and a few other things, as well. We also used part of the money to buy Chelsea a hospital bed and air mattress for her wound–and a hospital table, which has been invaluable.

We use the van every Sunday for church, and I have even taken Chelsea to the city a few times in it. Chuck doesn’t like for us to travel far in the van because if something happens to the van, if it breaks down or something, how would we get Chelsea home in her power chair?

My, this has been long-winded, and it’s almost time for lunch so I’ll have to quit writing. I don’t know if I got off on a rabbit trail or not, but I wrote and that was the goal. I earned myself a star–if I had stars to give myself. I’ll read some more in my book today, too. Little by little, maybe I can piece together what it is in me that makes me run to food when things get good or get bad or get happy or get sad.

Before I close, though, let me tell you what I picked up at Walmart today. A customer came by to pick up jewelry this morning and told me about her new love, Chobani Flip-Its. her favorite is the Coco Loco (I think that’s it). It’s coconut flavored Greek yogurt with chocolate pieces and almonds that you flip into it and stir in. Probably they’re not totally on plan, but, in my mind, they’re better than eating a pint of ice cream. I got four kinds because I thought of Chuck while I was standing there looking at all the different kinds. I got two salted caramel ones for Chuck, along with two strawberry crisp ones. I got a caramel one for me to try and a key lime crunch, too. They were a buck eighteen a piece. My customer says she uses hers in a dessert setting. I can’t wait to try one.

I would try one for my afternoon snack, but I enjoyed my diced, salted apple so much with the Triple Zero peach yogurt yesterday afternoon that I almost want to do that again.

Today is Thursday, so that means I have to get ready for another Facebook Live jewelry party tonight. Wish me luck!

Go Back, Go Back, Go Back

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One of the main things I had wanted to buy at Super Center was my foil star stickers, and what do you think I forgot when I went there with Chuck yesterday? Yep. The stickers.

On a positive note we were able to add seventeen gallons of water to Chelsea’s aquarium. The sad news is that it could probably use a couple more gallons, too. It really got low. Now I only wish we could do something about the flickering lights. If there were a way to unscrew the light panel it would be easy enough to replace them, but there are no screws. I don’t know what those little flat pieces are that attach the light panel to the hood, but they are not screws. Maybe the best thing to do is take the whole hood into Pet Smart and let them look at it. I think it will be hard to find a hood exactly like this one because it is kind of divided on top. Instead of having one large opening at the top of the aquarium, there are two.

I have had a couple of good days on Trim Healthy Mama. I went back to what I knew: oatmeal and smoothies, and I know the longer I go without caving to bad habits the easier it will get for me. When in doubt, go back, go back, go back to what worked before and then build from there.

I know the treadmill is what worked before, but, man, my foot! That piercing jabbing pain on the bridge of my foot keeps me from wanting to be on it for long. I shouldn’t complain. Even if it hurts, at least I have a foot to walk on.

To make matters worse, I have no one to blame but myself. It’s my own fault that it got this bad. If I had stayed active, if only I had kept doing my treadmill every day, my joints and muscles would not have gotten stiffer.

Oh, how easily I forgot my famous last words: I’m not ever going back to where I was. Friends, I’m here to say that it’s easier to fall back into old mindsets and patterns than I had thought, so, even if it’s a teeny, tiny step, that step has to be forward and not backward.

Find encouragement where you can. If you can’t find it within yourself or with your spouse or immediate family unit, then find it elsewhere, but find that kind, gentle voice that lets you know you can do this, that you’re not wasting your time, that you and your family are worth the effort to be healthy. Put the naysayers behind you: leave them in the dust and soldier on to that healthier, happier life that is within your grasp.

Chuck tightened the belt of the treadmill yesterday. I think it may have done the trick. We shall see. We hope so, because the new motor would have cost us a pretty penny. It’s not surprising, though, I suppose, that the motor on a $1,300 treadmill would cost in excess of $300. Still, even if it is the motor, that would be cheaper to replace than the whole treadmill–unless, of course, I could find a steal at a garage sale. That’s always in the realm of possibilities. People make extravagant purchases, with every intention in the world of following through and getting healthy. Six months later they sadly realize that the treadmill they spent a month’s salary on has done nothing more than provide another place to hang their clothes.

He was afraid that wasn’t the problem because one side already felt like it was pretty tight. He found the right kind of wrench out in the garage and got it done. Both of us are going to start using it, he says.

I’m blessed to have the husband I have. He’s been a trooper about Trim Healthy Mama, and he has made several changes to his own diet. What I’m about to type is something that four years ago would have been foreign to me: we haven’t had a baked potato for more than three years. In fact, except for Thanksgiving and Christmas, I don’t even buy potatoes, anymore.

A Facebook memory appeared on Chuck’s timeline yesterday, and he said, “I just saw an old picture of you from 2011, and there’s no way you have gained all your weight back. You still look a lot better than you did.”

Okay, there has to be truth in that because yesterday I wore a 2X top that I got off of Ebay. It isn’t even stretchy, but it still looks nice on me. It doesn’t flatten my chest or cut the circulation off in my arms. I’m not too far gone. It is indeed possible to pick right up after my “glitch” and find success again.

I can’t wait to get my new book! I even found a video of the author, after I purchased the book and was instantly engaged with her personality. It was hard to believe that the sweet, young, pretty thing on the video had ever experienced an epic battle with a birthday cake like the one she described on her daughter’s first birthday, but that account let me know I am definitely not alone in this food addiction thing.

Next year is my 40th class reunion (wow, that’s a big number!). Wouldn’t it be great if I can kick this sugar addiction to the curb and get down to a respectable weight before then?

Tempted by My Dreams

Last night was a rough one. As I was watching a movie on Lifetime, I got a craving for dark-chocolate covered caramels with sea salt, the kind that Costco has. I think they’re made by Sanders.

The fact is, there was no one to talk me down from the ledge, because I didn’t want to be talked down–so I didn’t tell anyone about my struggle. In my mind, it was a done deal: I was going to have my caramels. I decided on a number. Two. The number used to be three, but the last couple of times I had cravings I had cut myself back to two pieces of candy. Maybe a time will come when one will suffice, but that will be when I’m normal; and that may be a long time coming.

Right now I’m a binge-eater. I can’t be trusted with certain foods. My restrainer is busted. I know starting off that the first bite is going to be dangerous. That first bite is just flirting with disaster. So, the trick then is to keep from taking that first bite, because no matter how strong the urge is for that first piece of candy, the second piece is like a runaway train.

The brain is a funny thing. The first piece is justified with “One won’t hurt you” or “You’ve had a great day: you deserve this.” The second piece is justified with “Well, you’ve already blown it now: you may as well have two or three. Or polish off what’s left in the container.”

But then I did something crazy. I actually reached back in the corner of my mind for something–anything–that could save me. I remembered in Dr. Phil’s 20/20 Diet book that he suggested brushing your teeth to head off a cheat. His reasoning is that no one feels like eating when they have a minty, fresh sensation in their mouth. Basically what it does is deal with both the mental and the physical elements of the situation.

How many times have you heard this in your childhood: “You can’t eat that now: you’ve already brushed your teeth”? Brushing your teeth has kind of a finality to it. It signals the end of a meal or bedtime.

The other thing brushing your teeth does is ruin the enjoyment of whatever you pop into your mouth. Truth be told, caramel and toothpaste is not a good flavor combo.

So I got up from my chair and went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. Then I brushed my tongue. I wanted that minty fresh feeling all over my mouth. And it worked. Toothpaste – one, caramels – zero.

I made it to bed without a single caramel.

After I fell asleep, though, all heck broke loose. I had two cinnamon rolls and there may have been a container of biscuits and gravy involved or a sugar cookie (at least lustful thoughts of a sugar cookie).

All I remember from my dreams is that my old boss brought in Casey’s containers of biscuits and gravy for the whole gang. I wasn’t too interested in them, but it seems like one of them may have come open and I got some on my hand or something. I may have had a taste or two. In my dreams.

Then there was a big box of cinnamon rolls. Some had clear sugar glaze on them, and some had thick cream cheese icing. There were only two or three of that kind in the box, so I had to immediately grab one before someone else got them all instead.

The cinnamon roll was bigger than my hand. I remember meeting the gaze of one of my coworkers. He raised his eyebrows and his mouth kind of fell open as he caught a glimpse of the giant roll in my hand. I couldn’t tell if he was thinking, “Whoa, Dirinda, I didn’t think you ate stuff like that, anymore” or “Be sure and save some for the rest of us.”

To escape further scrutinization, I went out to pre-trip my bus. There was going to be nothing dainty, delicate or glamorous about the consumption of that cinnamon roll and I didn’t want people gawking at me as I tore into it.

I glanced up to see the car of a coworker drive past my bus, so I climbed behind my steering wheel and shut my door so she wouldn’t notice me stuffing my face with the massive delicacy.

In the next “scene,” Chuck and I were somewhere where there were lots of pastries. Two pastry shops side by side, actually. And, again with the cinnamon rolls. They were absolutely huge. There were thinly glazed ones with lots of butter and there were the ones with the thick white icing. Apparently the one I got from my boss wasn’t enormous enough, so I had another.

Then I noticed that Chuck was finishing off his second one, so I asked if I could have another, also. “That’s not fair. You got two,” I said.

“We have to leave now,” he responded.

“Well, can’t I at least have a sugar cookie, then?” I asked.

Whoever said you don’t dream in color should have been in my dream last night because those sugar cookies were absolutely glorious with their pink and blue frosting.

It was one of those nights where I woke up feeling guilty–as if I had really eaten two of the most gigantic cinnamon rolls I had ever seen in my life. No calories consumed, yet I still woke up feeling ashamed and guilty, just as I used to (and still do sometimes) after I quit smoking. In my mind I wake up to thoughts of “Why would you do that, Dirinda? After thirty-four years of not smoking, why would you want to throw that all away and light up again?”

The treadmill stopped on me yesterday morning after only two and a half minutes. I may have been able to coax it along for a few minutes at a time until I got my twenty minutes in, but I wasn’t patient enough–and I was more than willing to use it as a good excuse not to continue.

Yesterday evening, though, Chelsea came into the living room and asked if I wanted to go for a walk to Willow Creek and back. When we got outside, we opted to just walk the streets of our neighborhood under the shelter of the shade trees.

It wasn’t the most strenuous exercise I had ever gotten, but, by the time I was through panting and sweating, my Fitbit registered twenty-two minutes of rigorous activity.

When Chuck got home from work last night, he mentioned that we were going to have to order a motor for our treadmill and both start using it. It is no fun getting old and becoming stiff due to lack of activity.

Let me just say that first day in Mall of America was excruciating: at least it was when it was time to walk to the car. I had decided that my feet would hurt no more if I took big steps as opposed to small steps and I would arrive faster–until my knee started hurting, too, and then I could hardly move at all. I couldn’t bend my left leg, so there I was hobbling stiff-legged through the rest of the mall.

People were looking at me. No doubt they were thinking, “Look at that poor fat lady. She can barely move.”

Right across the bridge of my foot–is that what you call it?–where my toes connect to my feet was quite painful. I was telling a friend about it on Friday, and she said her feet are the same way. She told her husband that it felt like she was being crucified, like there was a big nail going through her feet.

I told Chuck it feels like the blood vessels that lead to my toes are clamped off.

He said, “But we know that’s not true, because your toes are still pink and healthy-looking.” Even if they are numb and feel like blocks of wood in my shoes, at least they still look pretty good.

I didn’t buy my stars for my progress chart yesterday, but, thanks to the recommendation of a dear reader, I did order the book, Full: Food, Jesus and the Battle for Satisfaction on Amazon yesterday. Amazon lets you begin reading your book right away, so I started right in. So far, I’ve loved what I’ve read and can’t wait for it to arrive.

I will keep you posted! Thanks to everyone else who left a comment or recommended a book that was helpful to you! I plan to check them all out!

I hope everyone had a better day yesterday and is having a better one today! Thanks for stopping by for a visit!

 

Whatever Works

I hope my quest for knowledge starts to knock out my compulsion for food. Today I will hit Amazon and buy a book or two more on food addiction.

I was let down by It Was Me All Along. The writing was good, but the author had had weight-loss surgery. My goal is to find someone who has conquered food without invasive surgeries. Or yoga.

The book I am currently reading I had to put down last night because the author started talking about guided meditations. She said she had grown up in a religious (I’m taking that to mean “Christian” household) where anything not related to God or Jesus was considered questionable or even evil. I would concur with that. Eastern spirituality has no place in my life. I’m not going to start anything that sends up red flags just to lose a little weight.

There has to be another way. My feet still hurt this morning, from my vacation and all that time cooped up in a car, but I took some ibuprofen and plan to get on the treadmill in just a few minutes.

Just as a bunch of small steps in the right direction add up in a good way, so do a bunch of small steps off the beaten path take you somewhere you really don’t want to be. My joints are stiffer and my knee and feet hurt more. It’s movement that keeps your joints and muscles looser. Use them or lose them.

I have a few tops that I bought after I lost my sixty-five pounds that don’t fit me, anymore, and I’m catching glimpses of someone in the mirror who horrifies me. I told Chelsea the other day that I’m starting to collect a new batch of “before” pictures. When someone takes my picture I catch myself cringing.

But today is a new day. I’m starting off with journaling/blogging. When the ibuprofen kicks in I will get on the treadmill. Then I will have a plan-approved breakfast.

At Dollar Tree yesterday I bought myself a composition book. Today I will buy some colored foil stars. Each day, whenever I do my treadmill, I will give myself a gold star. Whenever I go a day eating clean I will give myself a silver star. Each day I blog/journal/spend time reading about food addiction I will give myself a green star (for growing and learning). Each day I put three hours between each snack or meal I will give myself either a blue star or a red star. Okay, I haven’t worked out all the colors, yet, or even what other thing–oh, YES, I have!!! It just came to me! A blue star will be each day that I drink all my water. That leaves the red star for making it three hours between snacks and meals.

I should weigh myself. That is the logical next step. But I’m afraid. I need someone to hold my hand. I don’t think I can face that number alone. I won’t face that number alone, and, yet, I find myself in a precarious situation because I don’t want anyone else to know what it is, either.

Whatever it takes, whatever works, that’s what I will do. If I have to take my Trim Healthy Mama book down off the shelf and read it again, I will do that. If I have to start back at the beginning of my blog and try to catch some of my old enthusiasm I will do that, too.

After my treadmill and breakfast I will buy my foil stars and get started–back to where I was. Wherever I found success the first time I will find it again. Without weight loss surgery, without yoga or any other Eastern religion transcendental meditation.

I want to accomplish better health and weight loss without any foreign agents. I welcome all prayer, and, of course, the help of my Lord. I wish I could learn what it is in me that is getting in my way.

Today I’m feeling overwhelmed but optimistic. Let’s do this thing.