Fighting the demons...

It never ceases to amaze me.

No matter how long I've been on program, or how long I think I've finally conquered bad habits, I am stunned to discover this is all a life-long process. It is amazing how quickly all the good things I've learned can be thrown to the wayside.

It's been a bit of a downward spiral for me food-wise for three days. The reason for my bad behavior?

A bad run-in with the scale.

Seriously. Shouldn't I know better by now? How many times have I written "this is for life," or "The number on the scale doesn't matter?" Countless, countless times, right?

So why was it, that when Saturday came and I had yet another disappointing weigh-in, that I told myself, "The hell with it," and began stuffing myself with everything that wasn't nailed down?

After my weigh-in (Where I must say I stayed the same. Again.), I joined some of my friends for an outing to an Amish farm.

We had a great time...picked some strawberries and tomatoes. Enjoyed the fresh veggies. Had an all-natural milk shake. And then the real damage started. Apparently, these wonderfully kind Amish folks are great bakers. Herbed breads, cakes, cookies...and cinnamon rolls. Down went one cinnamon roll (at least they had no frosting...a small victory).

Then we went to a Mexican restaurant...down went the guacamole and the enchiladas. For dessert...another cinnamon roll.

For dinner, Mr. CCC and I made a late Wendy's run. I can console myself and tell myself the children's meal was a far better option than what the "old" me would have had, but let's get real. It was a burger. And fries. And yet another cinnamon roll for dessert. (Are you keeping track? That's three...in one day)

Sunday was our belated Valentine's Day dinner...where we shared a fried risotto appetizer (divine, I confess). Filet mignon as an entree. Flourless chocolate cake for dessert. This wouldn't have been so bad--everyone deserves a splurge meal every once in a while--if we hadn't had more fast-food junk at lunch.

To say I've blown through my calorie allotment for the past two days is an understatement. And I honestly didn't care. In my mind, what was the point of sacrificing? Of exercising? Of passing up what I really wanted to get the healthy stuff?

I've been doing all that for well over 16 months. I have lost a grand total of 33 pounds. I'm no math major, but that doesn't even come out to a pound per week. Considering how overweight I am, how much weight I have to lose, you can start to imagine why I'm bothered by this. You can imagine how my heart breaks when I see people who weigh less than me telling my how much weight they've lost; how they never exercise, how close they are to their goal weights. Internally, I start to cry and beg the gods of weight loss to please, please, let that be me.

So this weekend, I gave up. I quit. I said "To hell with this," and ate whatever I wanted, however I wanted.

And this morning, I woke up with a stomach ache. My body begged for healthy food. I kept thinking to myself what a good option a salad would be. I went to Taco Bell instead (At least I talked myself out of too much junk...I had a 9-point Fresco Chicken Bowl instead).

I'm leaving tomorrow for a week-long business trip. Because Mr. CCC and I are as usual, incredbily behind on the laundry, I had to run to the mall to get a few basics. And standing in the fitting room, I grew even more ashamed of my behavior.

Because despite what the scale told me--or didn't tell me this week--I've gone down another size.

In jeans.

You know, jeans. Those pants made with denim, that material that rarely gives? I almost started to cry. My body is changing and I'm not paying attention to it. Instead, I'm paying attention to a number. A machine made of cold plastic and metal.

I tried on a top...yes, it was cut very generously...but it was a medium. The XL and the large swam on me.

Why do I keep torturing myself with the scale? Why do I continue to let that little machine make me miserable? And why, when it doesn't tell me what I want it to tell me, do I still run quickly to whatever food I can stuff down my throat?

It's bad behavior at its worst. It's bad habits rearing their ugly heads. It's me, not believing in myself.

That has to change.

If I continue to pressure myself the way I'm am, I'm never going to conquer my issues with food or the scale. And if I don't do that, I will never succeed. And as I've written before, I have too much at stake to quit.

If only I could remember that...in good times, and in bad.

Why I'm really doing this...

Things have been hectic--but incredibly exciting lately.

I haven't blogged in a while, but if I were to tell you things were "same old, same old," I'd be lying.

Why?

Cause Mr. CCC and I are now a very proud uncle and aunt. Mr. CCC's sister had a lovely little daughter last weekend and I can't tell you how excited we are. My niece is an absolute doll and I am already spoiling her. She and her mom are both doing really well (even if mom's a little sleep-deprived) and everyone is in love with her.

Her mom just sent us a link to the newest pictures and I have to admit--I teared up looking at them. Happy tears of course! Babies just bring such joy and this little one is so special.

The entire experience of watching my sister-in-law become a mom has been wonderful. And it's been an eye-opening reminder of why I'm doing this.

There are so many reasons I'm losing weight. Looking good and being healthy are right up there, no doubt about it. But for me, the reason is a whole lot more personal.

I really want to be a mom and I know that at the weight I am, that's just not good.

Seeing my sister-in-law hold my niece was amazing--and yet, for me, slightly terrifying. It hit me--what if I can't have that moment? What if this body, that I have used and abused for so long, doesn't cooperate? What if I'll never get to see my husband, who I adore, hold a baby we created together?

It's so weird--we've been married nearly four years. The questions about when we'd procreate started the moment we walked down the aisle. For most of that time, we'd give people the standard, "We're not ready yet" line.

What a cruel joke it is when your head is finally ready, but your body isn't.

When I saw my doctor last September, I told her my concerns...and she told me it was good I was concerned. At 230-something pounds (where I was when I saw her), my body was in no shape to make a baby. A pregnancy at that weight would be riskier than a normal pregnancy. It'd be more stress on my joints and my bones. But she was happy that I was doing something about my weight on my own.

And she even gave me hope. My doctor told me there was no need for me to pressure myself and feel I had to be at my GOAL weight to try and get pregnant. She said she'd be happy if I was in the neighborhood of 175 and told me that if I was a little bit overweight, I likely wouldn't gain much during my pregnancy.

I am bowing to her better judgement, since her walls were full of fancy medical school diplomas and all, and targeting 175. But that still feels so far away.

It's why the plateaus and the gains have been so frustrating. I keep thinking to myself, "I've wasted the first 29 years of my life being fat...it's time to get healthy. Doing that before 30 would be nice."

For the record--30 is in late July. And that's the plan I figured out with my trainer...to get me at 175 by August 1, all I'd have to do was lose 1.5 pounds per week. Manageable. Doable.

But on Week 1 with the BodyBugg, I stayed the same. This week I only lost one pound. I have never thought about my long-term goal of 145...that seemed so far away. Now even 175 seems like it's an eternity from where I am.

Sure, I see the progress I'm making. Mr. CCC and I donated two bags worth of my old clothes this weekend. I look at pictures taken of me recently and I don't cringe (much) anymore. But I feel like I'm in a race with myself, with my body, with my fertility.

And being around my niece has reminded me that it's a race I have to win, no matter how hard it gets.