Ever since I have been working, I got into a bad habit on Sundays. After breakfast or around one o’clock, I get tense and moody, feeling as if the weekend were almost over, thinking of work, trying to do lots of things like read and drink tea and play the harp and take a bath, all things I actually love. But inside, I am not ‘with’ what I’m doing, I’m full of negative feelings. Other times, I waste hours on the internet, getting tenser by the minute, but feeling sort of stuck to the keyboard, unable to just go away. It has gone so far that I already expect this feeling before the weekend begins, thereby attracting it. Actually, I like Friday evenings best, because of the promise they hold, a promise of two free days.
Today, I set the alarm for seven and woke up slightly later. I made breakfast as usual, with some help from Papa. We ate. I didn’t restrict myself or eat rye bread and fromage frais. I had pretzels with salami, butter, honey, a white roll and cold cuts. All I did was remember what I ate so I can figure out the calories and points. Afterwards, I ironed my beautiful Himla pillow cases with the tiny embroidered leaves (LOVE them, but they are a pain to iron!) and some shirts, listening to the new Florence + the Machine album. Then I wanted to do something to my new blog, here on WordPress. The old one was fine, but I had trouble figuring out the themes and backgrounds here. That’s when I got tense and sad. At last I managed to tear myself away from the screen, went to have a late lunch and then out for a walk. I had been half-heartedly planning to go, but wasn’t sure until I went.
As soon as I had left the house, I felt better. I was out in the real world. There were autumn smells in the air, chimney-smoke and rotting leaves. I walked to the small park, the sky was grey, everything looked melancholy. It matched my mood, which was sad-beautiful. I saw many small beautiful things, mushrooms, a few last roses, a flowerbed full of vibrantly golden and red flowers, small overgrown paths. The park was closed because of building work, but a few people were there anyway. I stepped over the cordon and slipped under the trees. Those dear old trees, I know them all so well. The fountain was still on, it made a pretty tableau in the grey and green. I wanted to capture the beauty, so I wrote them in a tweet. Then I left the park and went on, to H square and the other park there next to the church. I was afraid because I saw a group of youths on a bench and I half imagined them mugging me, but then I went in and straight over to the swings on the other side of the park, under the huge old tree. Nobody was there. I listened to Galadriel’s Song of Eldamar while swinging, looking up into the yellowing leaves, reliving a thing I used to do that other autum four years ago, when I was so stressed and depressed. That had always helped and calmed me, music and nature and sunshine. They changed the swings though, making them more narrow, so that I can only swing in great pain. I was imagining myself a year from now, hopefully 52 kilos lighter, swinging there. Why can’t I fully believe in it? It is possible. My weight loss is going well, I lost almost three pounds this week. My goal is to lose a kilo per week until I am ‘slender as a willow-wand’, or a dancer. I will allow myself periods of rest, keeping my weight, if I should need a break. But I never want to gain weight again!
Yesterday, after the first class, I was feeling frustrated with my body and disappointed because Melanie hadn’t acknowledged me and because this russian girl was so much better at piqués than me. I was hungry, although I’d already eaten a banana. I was feeling pressured to deny myself by WW, and this pressure combined with hunger and sadness made me go to the supermarket. I wanted to buy something to eat. I was craving white bread. There I stood, in front of the bread shelf. Freshly baked croissants, white and dark rolls of every shape, buttery and plain, danish pastries, pretzels. I was looking at them all, imagining their taste. What should I buy? A white roll. Why not a buttery roll. Well, why not a pastry, a big one with chocolate chips. I was feeling defiant. You can’t tell me what to do, stupid Weight Watchers! You don’t care about me anyway, stupid Melanie. It will be ok on my calories list. I’m so hungry…
Suddenly, with a jolt, I came back to myself. I didn’t want anything from that shelf, not really. I wanted to eat something I could feel good about, that would last and give me energy for the second class, and not be heavy in my stomach. I wanted to lose weight for myself, not for WW or Melanie. I walked away, feeling better, and got some low-fat quark. Then I went to class and felt good and did well. This is the difference to earlier times. I can be more honest and kind with myself. I don’t feel like I am missing out on something anymore when I don’t eat everything that I want. I don’t feel like I am punishing myself with these measures, but doing myself good. I love my body enough now, I know it intimately. It isn’t perfect, but it is whole and it can dance and hear and see and smell and feel the wind against it. Abraham always speaks about the deliciousness of physical existence. I think I finally realised it. And, having experienced significant weight loss in this new, conscious body, I am hooked. I want it more than food, this feeling of lightness (when I am not very hungry). Everything in moderation, though. A crash diet won’t help me. A kilo a week.
After my walk, I felt much better. Made myself a huge cup of tea and sat down under my beloved Bourgie lamp, with “Albinoni’s” Adagio in G, to write. I write a lot these days, it does me good. I understand myself and like myself better through it. And I can ‘talk’ and say everything I want to say, while my family get bored if I do, or mean, and my friends are ‘estranged from me’. My sisters, but especially Dinah, have been very hostile to me. Everything I do or say is commented on, Dinah is practically dripping venom. She found my blog again, even though I had changed the address without announcing it on twitter. She must have found my twitter, because Papa had it and said she told him. That is why I moved to WordPress. I couldn’t continue writing with her in mind. I would have written TO her. To annoy her or to explain myself to her. And I would have held back. But I won’t brag or tease any more, I won’t speak about my new blog at all. I don’t know how she really found the old one, but I hope she never finds this one.
So, I’ll take a nice bath now and read a good book. And then the week can come!