May 20, 2013

One year ago today I started on a journey.

One year ago today it almost ended as quickly as it began.

It was about 5:00 in the evening. I was the first one home after my first session at The Key.

I remember contemplating the three things that I was told:

1. Don't eat anything sweet
2. Don't get on a scale
3. Eat only meat and vegetables, no "fake food."

My first reaction was, "I can't do this. There's no way I can do it."

I was scared. I was angry. I did not go into that room expecting to be put on a diet.

That's a good thing, though, because if I had known I NEVER would have gone there.

I wasn't prepared to be told that I was going to be responsible for what happened next.

I figured, "This is hypnosis. I just won't want certain foods anymore."

But Julie did give me some explicit instructions.

And those instructions involved indefinitely doing without Big Macs.

You know what the funniest part of that is? My initial freakout was over not being allowed to ever eat another Big Mac.

365 days later I can't imagine why I would ever want another one.

That sandwich represents everything that was wrong with my diet.

It represents everything that was wrong with my relationship with food.

It represented an early death.

It represented the irreparable damage done to my ankle from all the excess weight.

And just so we're not picking on just one poor sandwich, the Big Mac was only part of the problem.

On May 19, 2013, I went to party.

At that party, I consumed six slices of pizza.

I ate at least a half-dozen chocolate chip cookies.

I was guzzling Snapple and Orange Crush.

There were other token goodies to be had, too and let me tell you - I had them.

The thing is, that wasn't at all uncommon for me.

It was not at all uncommon for me to swing through the drive thru knowing full well that I'd be having dinner an hour later.

I was eating fast food an average of 10 times a week - every weekday for breakfast and lunch.

That doesn't even include the stops for those massive sodas and mass-produced pastries I would buy at Cumberland Farms.

It also doesn't include the times I would take my son to McDonald's on the weekends.

It doesn't include stops at Roger's for ice cream.

When I think back on how badly I ate, whether at fast food places or from my own damned table (spaghetti, garlic bread, meatballs, a metric fuck-ton of grated cheese and not a vegetable in sight), I honestly have no clue in hell why I'm not dead.

Here's the worst of it: on May 19, 2013, after consuming 6 slices of pizza, a half-dozen cookies, at least 40 ounces of sugared beverages and other assorted goodies, I still managed to reason myself into a stop at Subway AND the adjacent Dunkin Donuts on my way home.

I didn't intentionally binge before my session. THAT WAS JUST HOW I ATE.

I ate because I was in pain.

I was in pain because of how much I ate.

But eating made me feel better.

Until the self-loathing kicked in.

Eating made me happy...

...just long enough to forgot that I was so miserable.

But I remembered just as soon as that last bite was gone.

I honestly do not know where I got the courage to pick up that phone that cold February day and get on the waiting list at The Key.

I don't know where I found the strength to say yes when they called and asked if I was still interested in the program.

I do know what I was doing when they called, though. I was sitting outside Subway eating a footlong Subway Club with Bacon.

I was sitting outside because I didn't fit in any of the booths inside.

So I sat in my car.

I barely fit in my car either.

The steering wheel used to rub against my belly.

On May 20, 2013, I sat in that room and watched a grown woman walk on broken glass without harm.

I heard stories about army men that represented insulin coming out to do battle with the food I was eating.

I was told that "For the next week or until I tell you different, don't let anything sweet touch your lips."

I was told the same thing about getting on a scale.

I was told what I was going to eat. I was told when I was going to eat it (eat when you're hungry, not when you're not).

I was told there would be no peanuts, no avocados, no beans....


no no no no no no no no no

And, in my head, that's what I was saying.

Then something happened.

I went home and collapsed (emotionally).

I grieved the loss of my abusive lover.

I felt the pain of separation from the one thing that brought me any semblance of comfort.

Then I made a decision.

Fuck "for one week or until [she tells] me different." We're taking this one meal at a time.

I remember preparing that meal. I remember resenting how little variety there was on the plate.

But I ate it. And I ate all the meat I wanted with a balanced portion of veggies.

That day, I won.

The next day, I had eggs and bacon for breakfast with a side of spinach where there used to be potatoes.

For lunch, I had the leftovers from dinner.

For dinner, I made a chicken and had some more spinach.

That day, I won again.

By the third day, I had to tighten my belt.

By the third week I no longer had trouble getting up off the couch or off the floor.

By the third month I had gone down two pant sizes. I was able to walk as much as I wanted and was all over Acadia National Park.

I saw things in Maine last year I've never been able to see because my body was just too huge and too cumbersome.

By the sixth month, I celebrated my birthday with a renewed sense of optimism about my future. I was losing so much weight that people were starting to be impressed.

By the ninth month I realized I was shoveling snow without back pain and had enough stamina to clear my entire property all at once without a break.

By the tenth month I was down three shirt sizes and four pant sizes.

By the 11th month I was fit enough to ride roller coasters again.

At the end of 12 months, I still have some weight to lose, but I'm now the same size I was in 10th grade.

The body has taken a beating and it will take some time before it really looks good.

But I'm at least 80% of the way to my goal.

And every single day I've made the choice to keep at this.

800-900 meals later, nothing sweet has touched my lips.

I have not gotten on a scale.

I have not eaten anything besides meat and vegetables.

I don't look at today as the anniversary of starting a diet.

It's the anniversary of my rebirth.

It's the anniversary of the day I snatched my life back from the clutches of death.

It's the anniversary of the day I reclaimed my dignity and my self-esteem.

It's the anniversary of the day I stopped relying on anything external to "feel better."

It's the anniversary of the day I stopped being fat.

It's the anniversary of the day I finally acknowledged my worth and started living like I understood it.

I am unabashedly, unashamedly, and unapologetically proud of myself. What I have accomplished is a big deal.

I am a winner and I've laid my head down at night a winner 365 times so far.

Tomorrow I'm going to get up and win again.

And with every victory I'm closing in on my goal.

It is not far off.