Waaaaaay back in October, I posted about where food addiction has taken me. It was a little on the graphic side, so I won't put you through it again. Suffice it to say that, for me, losing weight isn't just about trying to cross my legs gracefully, or finding a lower-fat recipe for bean dip. It's about full-blown, low-bottom, chronic-relapsing, life-threatening addiction in the most serious sense of the word.
I'm not trying to be terminally unique here; I'm stating a fact. At my heaviest I was five-feet-nothing and 245 pounds. So I'm not your average gosh-she-could-stand-to-lose-maybe-twenty-pounds kind of girl.
I'm 55 pounds down from that awful place, but I've been losing and gaining the same five pounds for months now, because I haven't been able to stop eating destructively.
I suppose super-sized addictions call for the big artillery (Wow. Talk about a mixed metaphor. Or simile. Or something). So here's what I'm doing:
I was just about to tell you about how now I'm willing to go to any lengths, and how I'm taking all this fabulous action, and how this time it's gonna be different, really it is!, and how the next time you see me you won't even recognize me because I'm never going to eat a trigger food ever, ever, ever again.
But let's face it: The chances of that are, oh, I don't know, some infinitessimally small number barely above zero, out of maybe a bazillion.
Personally, I'm sick of the whole stupid thing. And I'm fairly sure my inner circle is pretty sick of hearing about it too. As, perhaps, are you.
But considering the grim alternative, I'm gonna have to bank on those odds, deal with it one more time. and hope for deliverance. Just for today.