Thirty Days

Today is 30 days without a binge, and quite possibly the first time I’ve ever achieved that without some kind of strict diet.

You’d think it would be easy to follow a food plan that suggests desserts two to three times a week, among other things, but it isn’t, at least for me. I struggle daily with the urge to cut back, in ways big and small, and am secretly kind of pleased on days I can go without my morning snack because there’s not as many hours between breakfast and lunch as usual. I’m supposed to have a yogurt every night – specifically not a diet or lowfat one – and yet I still look at the calories, and shy away from ones on the higher end. Last night I had a sticky toffee pudding and tried to make myself leave over a tiny bit, but the more I tried, the more I wanted it and the more resentful I became at the thought of it. I know that’s part of why I just have to eat it – to realize that I can, and that the world will not end if I do.

Almost every day I think about getting on the scale to check and make sure I’m not gaining weight from this, but I don’t have anything to compare it to, and I’m pretty sure the number would ruin my day. And so I don’t. I tried on a bunch of clothes the other day, only a few days after I’d already tried them on. I still can’t believe there might ever be a day where I don’t think about this stuff, but I’m trying to trust that it might happen.

I stopped writing as much because (a) I think it was getting boring and (b) I’m realizing that some of this involves trying to be where I am in the moment – in other words, not floating above it all (not in a superior way, just in an observing way) thinking about the story I could tell about it. Because for once in my life, I want something more than a good story. I want to get better.