Grrrrrr.

You probably noticed that I didn’t post this weekend.

No accountability reports, no updates.

Yeah.

It wasn’t a good weekend. I weighed in on Friday morning at 125.8 (expected, as I knew the 124.6 was more than likely water weight), and I ate well all day. My husband planned a beer tasting (like a wine tasting, but with craft beer), so I got a good workout in (two hours of elliptical) to give myself an extra allowance for dinner.

Yeah. I was bad. I ate a TON of cheese, drank three glasses of wine, and had a bunch of salty crackers. Even with my 1,250+ calorie burn, I was still way over my calorie limit, consuming close to 2,800 total calories.

OK… so Friday was my cheat day.

Then Saturday came along. My weight was up HORRIBLY (over 130) and I was depressed.

I ate healthy, worked out HARDCORE (60 minutes on the stairmaster for 1,003 burned calories + 60 minutes elliptical for another 630 calories burned), and then my husband and I had pho for dinner, followed by chocolate.

Again, over my calorie allowance, but I burned enough (fortunately) to still be at a burn.

On Sunday, I weighed in at 134.

134!! How do I go from 124.6 on Thursday to 134 on Sunday? Is it truly, physically possible to gain 10 lbs in three days?!

I took two diuretic pills, desperately trying to flush out the salt. I drank 1.5 liters of aloe vera juice, 1.5 liters of water, and 2 cups of green tea. I wasn’t able to workout (I had to work and a stack of homework), but I managed to squeeze in about 45 minutes of walking, and then I did 250 squats, 100 lunges, and 100 bicep curls while watching TV with my husband before bed.

This morning? 131.8 lbs.

Honestly, why do I even try? 😦

~ Tori

Tuesday Accountability Report

It was a good day, but a bad evening. A very bad evening.

I won’t expound here, but I will say that a bad evening translates into a good workout: when I’m upset (or angry, or stressed), I feel compelled to push myself harder than normal at the gym. I try to make the emotional pain fade by trading it for physical exhaustion.

When your muscles ache and tremble from fatigue, it’s hard to think of anything but a hot bath and a soft bed. Through exercise, my hurt is numbed.

Probably not healthy, but it’s better than my old habit: binging and purging.

With that said, my exercise tonight basically cancelled out the entirety of my day:

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Fortunately for me, I ate my “planned cheat,” the gluten-free chocolate chip cookie I was salivating over in an earlier blog post, before heading to the gym. So, at least that part of my evening went well!

Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow will be a better day.

Have a good night and bon appetit, my friends!

– Tori

A Letter to the World

Dear world:

What do you want from me?

I spent the first twenty years of my life “too fat” by your standards.  I was heckled, ridiculed, ostracized, and abused.

When I was in grade school, the kids would warn one another that I might eat them, or (worse yet) sit on them if they made me upset.

In middle school, I was ridiculed. Teased, voraciously and cruelly, by anyone that needed an ego-boost to get through their day.

In high school, I faced the worst of the abuse: I was ignored. I faded into the background, the lockers clanging and bells ringing, and no one really bothered to look for me beyond help with test questions and customized study guides.

For the last decade, I’ve worked to take control of my body.

I developed (and fought to overcome) an eating disorder as an adult. I dieted and I binged; I exercised and I purged; I succeeded and I failed.

In the last few years, I gained balance (for the most part) of my body.

I eat healthy and clean, but savor my fair share of chocolate. I exercise heavily and frequently, but make time to lay in a hot bath and veg.

I’ve gone from my peak weight – 214 pounds – down to 125.

I’m less than five weeks away from my 30th birthday and, for the first time in years, I feel like I’m back in school. Except now instead of being called fat, people call me “skinny.” Why does it hurt just as much?

“You’re too thin.”
“You’ve lost too much weight.”
“You look sickly.”
“You need to stop.”

When I was fat, everyone – children and adults alike – felt it was their right, their privilege, to pass judgment on my body.

I was “unhealthy,” and they needed me to know it. I was “unhealthy,” and they needed to set me straight. Maybe a little tough love would do the trick?

Now, at 5’3″ and 125 pounds, their civil responsibility has returned. My body isn’t right, and it’s their duty to remind me as often as they can, lest I forget.

I eat 1,200-1,900 calories per day.
I exercise 4-6 days per week.
I eat chocolate.
I eat chips.
I count calories, but don’t deny myself the things I enjoy.
I love to run.

I am strong. I am healthy. I am finally nearing a place where *I* am OK with my body.

Yet the world is not.

Why is my weight someone else’s business?

Why is my body the subject of someone else’s conversation?

Too fat, too thin, too big, too small.

What, exactly, do you want from me, world?

When am I allowed to be happy with my body? When will YOU be happy with my body?

And why do I care what you think?

Feeling dejected today,

~ Tori

Down Day

I don’t like what I see in the mirror today.

I’m frustrated. Frustrated with my body, frustrated with my will power, frustrated with me (on every level).

I kill myself at the gym only to come home and eat junk food. I know better. I understand good nutrition and I eat healthy 90% of the time, but I find myself in a self-sabotaging mood almost every evening.

In the span of minutes, I undo all the work of my day. A bite here, a bite there, and I’ve cancelled out an intensive sweat session.

I’m angry. Angry at myself, angry at genetics. My mother is tiny. My father was tiny. I never once saw either enter a gym. I never once saw either count a calorie. They just were.

For the majority of my adult life, I’ve been aware. Aware of what I eat, aware of what I do (or don’t do), and aware of how I look. I’ve never just existed. I’ve been hyper-aware of food, of my body, and of the world’s perception of me for as long as I can remember.

I’m tired of being jealous of other people. Tired of being jealous watching someone eat something I deny myself, put on a pant size I can never hope to squeeze into. I’m tired of not being satisfied of where I am of, of where I’ve come from.

Will I ever love my body? Will I ever hit my “goal” if my goal is never static? Will I ever stop being jealous and start appreciating what I have?

Looking at myself in the mirror today, I think the answer is no.

Hoping for a better day tomorrow,

~ Tori

 

Don’t Freak Out

I’m trying to keep myself calm. I’m trying NOT to freak out. I got on the scale this morning and it’s WAAAAY up.

Five pounds up.

I’ve done a lot of exercise lately (I ran for 2 hours, 45 minutes on Friday alone) and a lot of strength training, so I know most of the weight is the result of muscle fatigue and lactic acid back-up.

I’ve also consumed a lot of salt lately, polishing off a gigantic bowl of Vietnamese Pho on Saturday like it was my job:

 

This was a picture taken HALFWAY through the bowl. Yeaaaaah, I finished it.

This was a picture taken HALFWAY through the bowl. Yeaaaaah, I finished it.

I’m trying not to believe that these five pounds are real, but the numbers terrified the snot out of me this morning.

I admit, I’ve been eating a TON of candy lately.

I haven’t limited myself to one Cadbury egg this week; I’ve had 2-3 daily most of this week. I believed my extra workouts entitled me to it (which they did, I guess, if my goal was to cancel out my exercise with food) and now I’m trying to assure myself that I haven’t gained five pounds from chocolate.

Right?

Don’t freak out. Don’t purge. Don’t lose control.

I’m guzzling water and coffee today. I’m avoiding salt. I’m praying for a miracle tomorrow.

~ Tori

Cheat Days are Good Reminders!

I’ve spent the last 24 hours absolutely eating whatever I want. Pizza for dinner, waffles (with honey and peanut butter – YUM!) and cheesy scrambled eggs for breakfast. Jelly beans and s’mores (yes, s’mores) for lunch.

jelly-beans

I decided to let myself go crazy for the last 24 hours and I’ve held nothing back. I hadn’t given myself a true “Cheat Day” in a long time: I’ve tried to live by the 80/20 rule – eat healthy 80% of the time so when you want a splurge here and there–the 20%–it doesn’t feel like a big deal.

So, for the last 24 hours, I’ve eaten what I’ve wanted right when I wanted it and let myself eat any quantity my hands/stomach/heart wanted.

What have I learned?

Sugar is overrated.

I have a headache. My stomach is queasy and off-centered. The more I eat, the stronger the cravings for more become. It’s this painful cycle of ups and downs and I can feel the damage in my limbs (they’re heavy and dragging), my brain (it’s totally cloudy), and my moods (crazy giddy to hate-the-world melancholy).

I’ve only been doing it for 24 hours and I’m already ready to swear off sugar for life.

While I’ve always believed in moderation (one Cadbury Creme Egg per day, please!), I think the occasional “go crazy” cheat day is a positive specifically for this reason. Today’s the prime example of why I try to squeeze in a true Cheat Day once every five to six weeks.

It reminds me that junk food is just that: JUNK. It makes you feel like CRAP.

It’s like putting unleaded 87 fuel into a racecar: the engine pings randomly, the torque seems lessened, and the overall engine runs with a stutter.

While it was freeing to scarf down anything and everything I wanted, it’s only 4:30pm and I’m already over it. I want a salad. I want some grilled chicken. I want to throw away every piece of clearance Easter candy I hoarded in the last two weeks and live on nothing but green vegetables and water for the next month.

I know, I know. I’m overreacting. Tomorrow, all I will think about during work will be my daily Cadbury Creme Egg and I’ll look back at these “24 Free Hours” as a beautiful memory. Right now, though, I just want some cucumber slices and a shot of pepto bismo.

I guess cheat days are good reminders of why we try to live a healthy lifestyle. I can’t imagine existing like this!

On that note–bon appetit, my friends!

~ Tori

Physically Impossible? Not for me.

So, the trend of good Mondays has come to an end.

After nearly four weeks of intensive work at the gym and eating right, I managed to completely ruin/sabotage my success in just a few days.

CONGRATS TO ME!

You think I’m exaggerating, but let’s compare last Tuesday (8/20/2013) to this Monday (8/26/2013).

Last Tuesday, the scale read: 133.8.

I was so happy, I even took a picture of it:

Ah, sweet memories.

Ah, sweet memories.

It was a momentous occasion. I was officially lower than I had been since 5th grade.

This morning, the scale read 139.2.

The difference?

I still hit the gym five days last week. Each time, I burned no less than 400 calories, most days over 1,000 calories.

The only difference was that I cut myself slack on a few days with my diet. I let myself splurge and now I’m paying the consequences. I gave myself an inch and my f*cking weight took the whole damn mile.

Here’s the breakdown of my calories last week, care of MyFitnessPal.com. Let me know when you spot the downward trend:

Monday 8/19/2013:

Consumed: 1,227. Burned: 1,130

Consumed: 1,227.
Burned: 1,130

Tuesday 8/20/2013:

Consumed: 2,085 (bad!) Burned: 1,050 (at least it cancelled out)

Consumed: 2,085 (bad!)
Burned: 1,050 (at least it cancelled out)

Wednesday 8/21/2013:

Consumed: 1,822 Burned: 423 (Starting to notice a trend here? Yeaaah.)

Consumed: 1,822
Burned: 423
(Starting to notice a trend here? Yeaaah.)

Thursday 8/22/2013:

Consumed: 1,271 Burned: 1,051 (Am I back on the straight and narrow?! Redemption!)

Consumed: 1,271
Burned: 1,051
(Am I back on the straight and narrow?! Redemption!)

Friday 8/23/2013:

Consumed: 2,380 Burned: 851 (It's Friday. My only cheat day, I promise.... right?)

Consumed: 2,380
Burned: 851
(It’s Friday. My only cheat day, I promise…. right?)

Saturday 8/24/2013:

Consumed: 3,710 Burned: 67 (Oh, for fuck's sake. I literally consumed a pound of excess calories today.)

Consumed: 3,710
Burned: 67
(Oh, for fuck’s sake. I literally consumed a pound of excess calories today.)

Sunday 8/25/2013:

Consumed: 1,907 Burned: 91 (Might as well enjoy the morbid obesity.)

Consumed: 1,907
Burned: 91
(Might as well enjoy the morbid obesity.)

 

Yes, I was very bad last week. But, in doing the math, assuming I need 1,500 calories daily to MAINTAIN my weight and anything over that (that I don’t burn off) results in weight gain, how did I GAIN SIX POUNDS?!?!

Mathematically, it doesn’t make sense.

I consumed a total of 14,397 calories last week. (That just SOUNDS horrific).

Assuming 1,500 to live (and not factoring in my exercise) I should have not consumed more than 10,500. That puts me at a surplus of 3,897 calories – roughly a 1.5 pound weight gain if I round up.

However, adding in my burned calories, which was roughly 4,663 in total cardiovascular/strength exercises (not counting the normal day-to-day living stuff), I should STILL BE AT A DEFICIT for the week.

I should be at: -766 calories for the week net. I should have stayed around the same weight or even have lost an ounce or two.

BUT NO.

No, not my body. I’m up SIX GOD DAMN POUNDS.

I could punch something. I’m debating punching myself.

People often tease me for how regimented I am. For the fact that I count every calorie and obsess over what I put in my mouth. Do you SEE now why I have to do this?! Is this not proof? I allowed myself to eat whatever I wanted for 50% of last week – and still hit the gym hard five days in a row – and I’m up the weight of a god damn baby!

Is there a food baby in my lower intestine or something?! A beautiful, rosy-cheeked six pound LARD BABY rolling around in my duodenum?

UGHHHHHHH.

So angry. So frustrated. So ready to kick this week’s ass.

You thought I was hardcore before… watch me.

~ Tori

 

 

 

Spoke too soon.

I am ashamed.

So very ashamed.

Yesterday, I blogged about the fact that I had gone so many weeks without an episode, without giving into the devil inside me. I had gone six, seven weeks without binging and purging.

All I did was taunt the beast.

I don’t know why I did it. I was attending my online lecture, calm and quiet, when it started. A cookie. Then another. Then another.

While the class went on, unknowingly a witness and an accomplice to my self-destruction, I shoved it in. Cookies.

Chips. If it was edible, it was going down.

My brain screamed at me. It yelled and cursed and chastised me.

“You don’t even like cookies!”

“You are not even HUNGRY!”

“You’ve had dinner. And a snack. Now STOP.”

But my damned hands wouldn’t stop. They couldn’t. Treacherous, five-fingered harbingers of hate and lust and sloth. Just shoving away.

Oh, and my mouth!

The greedy bitch – she took it all. Happily, eagerly, little porcelain teeth gnashing with joy and ecstasy as the chocolate melted and the crumbles fell.

It lasted maybe five minutes. A package of cookies. A bag of tortilla chips. Gobbled up. Devoured. Inhaled with barely a breath between bites.

The lecture continued.

How were they to know the sin I had just committed?

My stomach flipped and the bile rose in my throat.

What had I done? What could I do?

I excused myself as quickly as I could from the closing banter of my class, shoving my laptop away and rushing to the only salvation, the only punishment and recourse available to me: the drugstore.

I had no other option.

Of course, ipecac syrup was out. Why have places stopped carrying this god-send for the bulimics? Perhaps they realize that their product is never used with the right intentions and that they’re encouraging (and enabling) people to continue this self-destructive habit. Well played, pharmaceutical companies, well played. I’ll just find another way.

I had to settle on the old favorite: laxatives.

Would 15 pills be enough? I’ll buy the 90 count, just in case.

In the darkness of my car, no one to witness (or mock or judge), I popped them, washed down by sugar free Gatorade [as if it mattered anymore] and prayed it would hurt as much as I wanted it to. Please be painful. Please let the memory of this pain last long enough that it prevents a future binge. Please let this be the last time I go through this.

I’m not religious, but prayers filled the car like music fills the church. Please, God, please.

When I got home, I told my husband I had a sour stomach (not a lie) and he felt guilty that it might have been the dinner he brought me. The thoughtful, healthy dinner he dropped off that served as an appetizer to my binge.

Ashamed to tell him the truth, I let him believe that.

“Perhaps the chicken was bad?” I offered.

I’m a terrible human being.

The pills kicked in around 4am, the pain in my abdomen so violent that my half-asleep brain was convinced that a murderer was stabbing me, unrelentingly, eager to rip the very intestines from my body.

Purge, purge, purge.

Three hours, off and on.

Step on the scale… down.

Down, down, down.

No… don’t let that smile creep on your face as the numbers drop. You’re sick. Sicko. Look what you did to yourself. Look what you’re doing. Look what you’ve done.

I couldn’t go to work today, my stomach in shreds, my head aching. I’ve done this to myself.

WHY?

I’m ashamed. So very ashamed.

~ Tori