There is a very find line between calorie counting and exercise bulimia. I consider myself pretty self-aware, and I knew when I started dieting that I would be walking this line. Every day is a series of numbers - I ate this much, I burned this much, I need to eat this much more, but not THIS much more because then I'm in maintenance and not in weight loss. Every day I was reminding myself not to get caught up in these numbers, because what was important was eating better and moving more.
I think the beginning of the end came when a friend (whom I love dearly despite how this story may sound) told me I was destined to fail. I wasn't experiencing the results I was looking for, and I was at a really low point. I was working out 3-4 times a week and consistently hitting my calorie goals (on every day but Wednesdays, which for some reason, were my fat days), but the scale wouldn't budge. My friend told me that because I was so miserable, I was not going to be successful. I would not lose weight because I was not making sustainable lifestyle changes that I could stick with forever. I would not lose weight because I was not enjoying the dieting process.
At the time, this was the worst thing anyone could have possibly said to me. I was heartbroken. My friends, who had been so supportive, were turning on me. What the what? Was I that much of a mess? I called my sister, who promptly told me to ignore my friend, that I should not get caught up in the numbers, and to go to bed (most advice in my family ends in "go to bed").
For some reason, this triggered something in me. I was worried that I had become too obsessive about dieting - which I in turn treated by becoming completely obsessive about dieting. I'm talking deliberations before every meal, panic attacks whenever I was invited out with friends, and jumping jacks at midnight so that I could eat one more bite of peanut butter. I was sick. I felt myself walking that line between calorie counting and exercise bulimia, and I felt myself teetering over to the dark side.
One night, I ate too much for dinner. I was getting ready to go out with my friends, and I knew everyone would be drinking. The thought instantly popped into my head, "if I threw up right now, I'd feel better, and I would have calories left to eat later." What the what?! Who is this person in my brain?! I ended up not going out that night, beating myself up for my thoughts, and going to bed miserable. This would have been almost permissible if it was the only time this thought crossed my mind. There were another three occasions in the same week where my pretty-much-full-blown exercise bulimia was teetering into that other kind of bulimia. All three times I caught myself before I did something I would regret, beat myself up over it, and went to bed miserable.
I continued calorie counting until two weeks before the wedding. While sitting in a diner at midnight, I inputted the food I was eating into my iPhone. I had done kickboxing that morning and walked all day; my exercise calories burned were well over 1000. My calorie counter alerted me that I was over budget for the day. I went through and deleted every single thing I had eaten that day from the counter. I didn't want to see it. I didn't want it to exist. I thought, "Fuck you, MyFitnessPal. I worked out literally all day. I am going to drink this Cosmopolitan and eat this cheesecake. And I am going to look fabulous at this wedding, and you are not going to bring me down anymore." And that's exactly what I did. It was the worst cosmo I had ever had. I did not care. It tasted like victorious defeat.
A wise therapist once told me that my anxiety stems from the word "should." She had me create a list of things I loved and and a list of things I wanted to know more about. The things I loved were, obviously, wonderfully awesome things. All of the things I wanted to know more about were things that I should know more about. Exercise that makes me happy. Reading the books that I own. Planning for the future. Whenever I do anything, I am constantly aware of what I should be doing instead - even if what I am doing is writing a paper, I probably should be writing that paper, while doing my laundry, and eating some impossibly delicious low-cal homemade meal that I whipped up for under $3 per serving. As I wrote that sentence, I thought "I should find a way to include lesson planning in that scenario too." I cannot stop.
Calorie counting is a list of "shoulds". Did you eat cereal with a banana and almond milk for breakfast? You should have only used half the banana. Did you run for 40 minutes today? You should have run for at least 45. For someone like me, it's lethal. My anxiety turned me into a monster. A crazy, diet-obsessed, slightly-bulimic monster. I was miserable.
I am happy to say that I loved the way I looked at the wedding. I was gorgeous, and I got lots of compliments on how much weight I had lost. Sure, the scale only said 5 pounds, but it felt like more. And those last 2 weeks when I was walking for pleasure and going to the gym classes that interested me (ballet, Zumba, kickboxing, yoga) were the first time in my life where I enjoyed exercise. Sure, I probably went because I knew I should. But I actually enjoyed myself while I was there. And I felt great afterwards!
Since all of these events, I have gotten off track and probably gained back a bit of the weight that I lost (FINALS #gradschoolproblems). But I am now back to walking, dancing, kickboxing, and yogaing my stress away. More importantly, I have stopped caring so much. Food is food. I have to eat it. I try to eat healthy, but if I don't this ONE TIME, no one is going to die. I am not obese, and I'm not really on track to be. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I cut myself a break. And everyone else should too. Forgive yourself. It's worth it.
So there it is. Honesty Hour here on Concrete Jane. I've missed you, blogosphere. I'm happy to be back.
