Breaking Up is Hard to Do

Last month – a week before I left on holiday – my gym and I went our separate ways.

Ever since last May, when my office moved to the South Bank, it had been a bit difficult to make time for each other. There was no gym in my new office building (it just opened this month!) so I stuck with my old one, which was a 25-minute walk away – sometimes more, depending on trudge factor. And yes, it was always a walk – there is no convenient tube or bus route between my old office and my new one. So I was getting up a good half hour to 45 minutes earlier to get to the gym in the morning, and in the winter, it was a struggle.

In February, my company stopped the corporate rate. Between that (to remain a member, the price for me would more than double), the distance and the fact that my attendance had dwindled (I was substituting running outside and occasionally, walking the hour from my flat to my office), I knew things were over.

What I miss most already is my Saturday routine – I’d do Body Pump (instructor was, quite simply, the awesome-est) and then some cardio and then head to lunch. Without fail, I did it every single Saturday I was in town.

Currently, I’m researching some new classes (mostly yoga, which I became completely obsessed with while on vacation – more on that in another entry), but I’m struggling a bit. I don’t do well without a routine, and from a purely physical (and physiological) standpoint, I can’t run every day. And I’ve got a few other complicating factors, including Bachelor No. 2, who lives on the opposite end of London from me and eats like a total boy, and a total English boy at that (translation: extremely unhealthily). He was seriously sporty at university, but as even he points out, that was many, many dinner parties ago. Almost every weekend I haul my running gear to his house (because every week he insists he wants to go), and then – like Waiting for Godot – we do not move. Sigh. But this morning, when – predictably – he announced he’d decided not to come, I went myself. It wasn’t easy.

* * *

BN2 knows I struggle with eating, but he does not know why or how or to what extent. (I am a rotten liar, and he asked me directly what the specialist doctor’s appointment I had was all about a couple of months ago. I told him in the briefest terms, and didn’t even use the word “binge.”) He knows I don’t handle anything well when I get too hungry, and he knows that exercise is important to me.

What he does not know is that staying at his place is getting me slightly crazy. I cannot – as he does – eat croissants or pain au chocolat or toast with butter and honey (or sometimes, nothing at all) for breakfast. I can handle it every once in a while, but it shouldn’t become a regular fixture. It doesn’t fill me up. It’s so easy to eat too much of. And it sets me up for a day of eating poorly. In short, it was starting to cause me stress. Stress makes me eat, or at least, want to eat.

Yesterday I managed to bring it up. He asked me to remind him to buy milk so we’d have it for tea in the morning and I just thought: Here’s my chance. Except for his slightly defensive “I asked you what you wanted for breakfast” – and his total obliviousness to calories and nutritional content (he puts butter on his peanut butter sandwiches – it’s so sweet and childlike in a way that I don’t want to be the one to make him think twice about this) it was really not a big deal. So along with the milk we bought porridge and peanut butter (to be eaten separately, thank you very much -- I rediscovered in Indonesia how filling peanut butter can be.)

I breathed a huge sigh of relief… until this morning, when he wanted to make me a peanut butter sandwich while I was in the shower “so I can have more time with you.” What kind of person says “no” to an offer phrased like that?

Um, that's me in the spotlight. That's me in the corner. I thought about all the instructions I’d feel the need to give (“please no butter, and please not too much peanut butter” – he is about as heavy-handed with any kind of spread as Tammy Faye Bakker was with makeup – “and please don’t toast it and…”) and the fact that no matter how he made it, I’d feel obligated to eat it. And so I said no thanks, and felt at least as guilty as I did when I decided to do exactly what suited me and go running.

Back to (Um, Need a Play on "Black" Here)

I’m battling jet lag and freezing temperatures (I came home to my boiler not working – so it’s literally too cold to type in my flat), so a proper post probably is going to have to wait a few days.

But (since I, too, assume silence on a blog = nothing good to report) as of now I’ve gone 21 days without bingeing. (I'm especially proud that a bunch of those days were heavy travel days.) That’s the longest I’ve gone since sometime before Christmas. October maybe? I don’t know – it feels good. I feel good.

Bali High

Greetings from Bali, where I stand out not only as the palest girl on the planet (I am so becoming English -- the other day I craved a cup of tea), but as the only one without a tattoo. (I'm not free from markings, though -- apparently the mosquitoes find me as delicious as they did when I was a child. No wonder no one else has any bites -- they're all feasting on me...)

Anyway, it's a gorgeous sunny day and I don't want to spend it inside on the Internet (this is the first I've been on in at least a week -- bliss!), but just a quick accountability post to say all is going well. I've gone 10 days without a binge and have been doing well with the exercise (running by the rice paddies, yoga yesterday, etc). Must be careful not to let my guard down, though -- it's always just when I think I can relax that I fall even harder than I thought possible. (Like yesterday -- spent the whole time we were in Bukit Lawang to see the orangutans thinking I was going to take some awful spill down a mountain and break something, and then yesterday, daydreaming my way down the street in Bali, I swear I nearly fell into a ditch!)

Have been keeping good notes so hoping actually to post some pictures along with words when I'm back after Easter... hey, I can dream.

Coffee, Tea or Paella?

I'm writing this quickly, sitting in the airport waiting for my flight to Kuala Lumpur. In my travel bag next to me: Enough healthy food for the whole flight, so I don't even have to contemplate the airplane or airport food options.

Yes, I binged in Spain. But I haven't given up yet.

(Sidenote: Just who is buying a kilo of Cadbury's Dairy Milk, which I saw for sale in the duty free? And, erm, why? Even I have to pause when confronted with the possibility of a personal chocolate supply that vast.)

Spain was tough. Because it was a food show, I spent hours watching people eat amazing food, and of course was ravenous by the time it was my turn to eat. The hours were long, there were no gyms in the hotels (I'd had to stay in them because that's where the crew was staying), and it was a lot of hurry up and waiting. I found myself a gym to go to when we moved on to Madrid from Valencia, but Madrid gyms don't open early in the morning, and the shoot was scheduled to start at 8 a.m. (I knew perfectly well it wouldn't start until at least 10 -- and in fact, it didn't start until just before noon -- but I still couldn't chance it.) Frustrating.

To top it off, I've been struggling with a couple of personal problems too personal even for the Internet. (Yes, there is such a thing. At least for me.) One of them is causing such anxiety I am positively jumpy -- so it's hardly surprising I want to eat to soothe my nerves. I know, I know: I should read my own damn blog: Eating will not solve any problem (except hunger, of course).

I ate my way through Tuesday and Wednesday (including the best paella I've ever had in my life -- I may never be able to eat it anywhere else ever again) and much of Thursday, when I finally dug in my heels and cancelled the tea on Friday, claiming I was delayed in Spain. I knew having to run out of work early for a tea that consists entirely of cakes would be stressful and disastrous -- and bingeing the night before a long plane trip would be awful. I'm not proud that I lied, but I'm proud that I put myself first, even if I had to do it in a roundabout way. (The birthday girl is a good friend, but not such a good friend that I've explained the eating problems.)

So yesterday was a gold star day, food and gym-wise (despite the fact that I really didn't want to go.) It helps, but I'm still feeling very fragile.

This post is mostly for accountability -- hence its quick and disjointed nature. (Also, the fact that I have four minutes left and my flight's about to board). I'm hoping to do a bit more writing on the plane and perhaps post again in Kuala Lumpur. Hopefully, a post or two should keep me honest!

True North

Repeat after me: No matter what the problem is, eating will not solve it.

I don’t really know what the problem is, but on Friday I ate over it. Yes, I binged – only less than four days after the last two-day bender. I left a lunch with a fellow journalist and just kept eating. That night I felt so sick I could hardly concentrate on what a friend was saying at dinner. At one point, I went to the bathroom and stood with my sweaty forehead against the cool stall door, willing myself to remember how awful being too horribly full feels so that I don’t do it again. I hate being that full. I hate being unable to concentrate; just wishing time would pass so that I’ll feel less full.

I feel OK now, if a bit shaky. I’ve made it through four days of eating appropriately, although I’m seriously nervous about the next couple of weeks. I’ve got a cream tea on Saturday for a friend’s leaving drinks, then a birthday dinner that night. And next week I’m running around Spain with a certain Oscar-winning Shakespeare in Love actress (hint: she looked like one of those pink-covered Hostess marshmallow cupcakes – I think they were called Snowballs -- when she accepted her award) and a very famous chef while they make a food show (eek!) for television. Then it’s back to London where I’ve got another fancy tea for a friend’s birthday Friday. And then it’s a ton of time in airports/on airplanes (a huge binge trigger for me) en route to Indonesia for vacation. (I’m already considering bringing all of my own food for the plane trip out so I don’t even have to think about what would be a good option.)

I’ve got two big problems at the moment. The first is that suddenly, all the foods I could just look past or through suddenly look very appealing. Every bakery window, every newsagent, everywhere I look there are things I want to eat. Even going into a market to buy fruit is a challenge – I’ll think I crave a grapefruit, but then end up buying an apple and a pear as well and being unable to choose which to eat. (I know an extra piece of fruit isn’t going to kill me – it’s just the idea that I don’t seem capable of making any food decisions at all.)

The second problem is that I’m not sure what the problem is – well, what the underlying problem is. Why am I suddenly bingeing? What am I trying to fix? I have this vague idea that it may be connected to Bachelor No. 2. As lovely as he is, as comfortable as I feel with him (and I do feel remarkably comfortable) and as well as things seem to be going, I’ve got a sense of uneasiness and imbalance that’s throwing my internal compass off its generally healthy north. I think a huge chunk of this is me and not him – the first therapist I had for binge eating told me I shouldn’t date at all while in treatment because it would just be too messy for me to handle; that I was just learning my own feelings and wouldn’t be able to deal with someone else’s. I also think part of my lapse is due to relationships in general – more meals out, more drinks, more reasons to stay cuddled up at home as opposed to trekking to Gloucester Road on a Sunday morning for Pilates! (But I did drag him for a run Saturday afternoon…It was short and about half the time I would have gone for had I gone myself, but at least we went.)

I’ve decided I probably won’t get on the scale until after my vacation, although I reserve the right to change that if I decide what I’m doing is avoiding facing the facts. But at the moment, my clothes still fit and today someone I haven’t seen in several weeks came into the office kitchen and said: “Hello, Miss Skinny.” Wish I could bottle that rush of pride – along with the memory of how it feels to be way too full – for weak moments.

The Long and Winding Road

I scale-hopped this morning: 11 stone 8.

(And you thought I was exaggerating how much weight I can gain in a couple of days.)

Frankly, I’m only slightly upset. Mostly, I’m just relieved. I’m still in the “acceptable weight category” (barely, but still), and I’ve had two days of eating appropriately – and it’s the day or two after the binge that, in my experience, are the trickiest.

Yesterday was particularly tough. Despite being up very late Tuesday closing stories for the magazine, I got up early Wednesday to fit in Pilates (and, yay me, managed to hold the dreaded plank for two minutes, something I’ve not yet been able to do.) Then, despite the wide availability of cookies, chocolate and champagne in the Brit Awards press room – because PR people know that the press are like small children: feed us junk and we will shut up and behave – I touched none of it except for diet Coke and a couple of bananas and strawberries. I brought my own dinner so there was no need to even contemplate the food table at length.

After the awards, I headed to an afterparty hosted by Kylie Minogue at a nightclub I loathe. It was the sort of frustrating evening that makes me (a) want to quit my job on the spot and (b) eat, but I did neither. Tonight I’ve got a drinks event that historically has been both boring and with very delicious canapés, not a diet-friendly combination (at least not for me). I may try to eat dinner beforehand.

* * *

I honestly believe and fervently hope this will be my last year in this job, and with that in mind, I’m trying to whine a little less and appreciate a little more, if for no other reason than my own sanity. Hours or days where I like or enjoy – let alone love – my job are incredibly rare, but they do exist.

Last night the Brit Awards were two of those hours. Besides performances from the Kaiser Chiefs and Amy Winehouse – both of whom I love – there was a five-song medley from Paul McCartney. Whatever you feel about McCartney’s post-Beatles career (there were multiple snide references to the Frog Chorus in the press section), it was hard not to feel lucky just being in the room for his set. The man still has it. Only Macca could get a bunch of jaded record company execs – plus a flotilla of rock stars – standing on their chairs, pumping their fists and singing along to “Hey Jude.” And there was a sweet tribute to Linda with “Live and Let Die,” with the crowd cheering as images of her lit up the screen during a video montage.

You’d think the man would be used to this sort of reception, but even he looked (pleasantly) surprised. And as a slightly jaded reporter who’d already been waiting around for hours not expecting much, so was I.

Several Steps Back

It started out as just a jam doughnut and a cream finger. Then it was another jam doughnut. And then another four jam doughnuts. Then an apple cinnamon muffin and a piece of Victoria sponge. (I threw away most of the Victoria sponge, somehow – it didn’t taste very good, not that taste is ever really the point of this sort of thing.) Then a brownie (which tasted – ick – like it had orange in it. But I ate it anyway.) Then Chicken McNuggets and a vanilla caramel sundae. (Never mind that I don’t even like McDonalds.)

That was yesterday’s binge, the worst binge I’ve had in years, I think. Well, except for the binge I had on Sunday, which also fits into that category.

I didn’t even think I physically was capable of eating that much any more. Apparently I was wrong.

I can’t begin to describe how awful it feels, both physically and mentally. There is the feeling of my jeans being too tight – and the fear that any day now I’ll be too fat to wear them ever again. There is that too-full, too-hot, too-sick, too-tired feeling that’s accompanied by the fervent wish that I could throw up. (I’ve never been able to force myself, and long ago stopped trying.) There is the disgust, and the anger, and the sadness. And again, there is the fear. Where did this come from? Neither of these two binges were preceded by triggers I recognize. There was no despair and no loneliness – and no alcohol, usually the lit match to the oil.

On Sunday I’d finished a very late lunch with Bachelor No. 2. I’d been nearly frantic by the time we sat down – it was after 3 p.m., and I hadn’t eaten since 9 a.m. (and had had only a very small breakfast). I was so hungry I could hardly decide what to eat; so hungry I was cross about even trying to make good decisions. Why couldn’t I just have the fried Brie with the raspberry sauce as a starter? I asked the waitress about the Waldorf salad (mayonnaise dressing – nope) and the prawn cocktail (not available without the sauce – which I loathe – already mixed in). I had a small green salad. I was still seriously hungry when the main courses arrived.

I had a six-ounce fillet steak without any of the sauces. I had a bit of the mashed potato and some of the sautéed mushrooms. When I’d finished – and BN2 still had about half of his left -- I felt like I could have eaten more. Very embarrassing. He didn’t want pudding; I did, but didn’t feel like I could have it if he didn’t. I’m not sure I’m at that point with anyone, let alone him. (A few weeks ago I avoided a binge by asking a friend to accompany me to have a piece of chocolate cake “like a normal person.” I avoided a binge, but it was a very close friend who knows all about this particular struggle. Anyway, I didn’t eat the cake like anything approaching a normal person – I think I inhaled it.)

I should have gone through the Tube ticket barriers with him at Green Park (he was getting on one line; I was getting on another), but I’d been plotting since we left the restaurant. I said I was going to buy a bottle of water, and watched him disappear down the escalator. Then I bought a raspberry flapjack and ate it on the way back out of the Tube en route to the Starbucks to get some chocolate cake. I’m already ashamed enough of the binge detailed above so I’ll skip the gory details on this one. Suffice it to say it was huge.

I’m working out what happened here – or what may have happened here – as I write about it. So all I can conclude is that I let myself get too hungry – something I usually try to avoid – and then I felt like I was being denied something. (I remember this acute feeling of disappointment when he said he didn’t want pudding, and was so powerfully pulled back to being a child, being promised dessert for one reason or another, and then it not materializing.) There is also the question of whether I’ve been denying myself too much in general. I have been pretty good about incorporating chocolate lately, but apparently there’s an ocean of things I really want to eat (ugh, though – can I please have better taste than McDonalds?) that I’d better start letting myself eat in moderation.

I can’t explain why I binged on Monday, the second day. My best guess is that it’s what a nutritionist I consulted years ago called “last chance eating” – I hadn’t finished consuming the list of mostly forbidden foods on Sunday, so I went back for more. (I actually remember – on top of my disgust and annoyance with myself for bingeing – a feeling of frustration and annoyance that I was bingeing on a Sunday night, when an awful lot of things in this country are closed.)

So where am I now? Still angry and disgusted and frustrated with myself. Annoyed and upset and frustrated that in two days I’ve negated all the losses since Christmas and may in fact be up at my post-Christmas weight, if not higher. (I don’t want to get on the scale.) I’m also anxious – I’ve got a busy couple of weeks (including another champagne-soaked very long night tomorrow at the Brit Awards plus a bunch of leaving drinks parties), and then a vacation. (I don’t always do well with being out of routine, especially an exercise routine.)

But… even with my hugely distended stomach I went to Powerplate this morning, although I didn’t do my usual run there. I went to yoga at lunchtime. And I ate appropriately. Tomorrow I will do my best to stack the odds in my favor, including hitting Pilates in the morning, bringing dinner with me, and – most likely – not drinking at all during the awards. Fingers crossed it works.