Magnolia Bakery and I, we’ve met again. At least four times, maybe more, in the past three weeks.
And once – this past Sunday – twice in the same day.
You see, I hadn’t noticed that the icebox cake I’d asked for a slice of was peppermint, not plain. I don’t like minty desserts, but liking it was hardly the point. I was cold and tired and frustrated and disgusted and sad and disappointed and scared.
I think I was actually hungry not long before I had the first slice, but I wasn’t by the time I got it. I’d already had a Hamentaschen (raspberry, maybe, probably) by then, and possibly something else. A black and white cookie, I’m pretty sure. Neither of them were good, but again, with bingeing, that’s never really the point.
And many hours and countless grams of sugar, fat, and carbs later, I had another slice at a different location. It was the last slice left, and as the woman behind the counter boxed it up and handed it to the cashier, the cashier told her in some sort of code where to leave the remnants so that she could have them later. I flashed back to being allowed to lick one of the beaters when my mother made whipped cream. For an instant I yearned to be back in our kitchen in Florida, 25 years ago. Now I remember I was out of control – or well on my way to it – even then.
From midway through December until, well, Sunday, I reacquainted myself with just how exhausting and painful (both physically and mentally) consuming way too much food is. I struggled to get out of bed some days. My back hurt. My head hurt.
It was terrible, and I had no one to blame for it but myself.
I stretched my stomach so much that today, five days of clean eating in, it is showing no signs of snapping back. (Usually three days does it for me.)
I feel like I’ve been constantly hungry and slightly fragile, so much so that tonight I didn’t dare go out and run a couple of errands because I didn’t want to be out near shops. And so my step count (I’ve been tracking mine with a free phone app) is woefully low for today. Such are the trade-offs, I guess.
Exercise – which I usually find easier to deal with than food – has been a struggle. I feel, quite literally, weighed down.
But getting back on track is like cycling up a steep hill. Though you’re pushing as hard as you can, the pedals feel like they won’t move – are barely moving. But you know if you stop, starting again will be even harder.
And so I push. Today it was a very slow 4.5 mile run on the treadmill, done at 6 pm after a whole day of fighting with myself about it. I know one of these days I will wake up and feel like myself again, if I can just keep going.
Thanks, by the way, for the comments checking in. It's funny how it's hard for me to write when things are going well, yet (different) hard to write when things aren't. Hmmm. Makes me wonder about my choice of career....