I’d given myself a good excuse not to write this morning: “I don’t feel like it”; but now I feel like I need to put some stuff down. Not for you, not because I said I’d try to write 10 pieces on Getting Shit Done in 2010, but because I just need to say a few things to myself, for myself. You’re just the fly on the wall.

I’m genuinely daunted by all I know stands before me this year. I’m scared as fuck about what it is I hope I will have accomplished when I’m standing on this date come next year.

Fact is, the first day back to work after Christmas is usually one of the most depressing days of the year for me. Mostly because the weather’s invariably shit, the workload is usually intimidating, and have the knowledge that I’m Canadian and yet somehow the fucking CHUMPS running this country think it makes sense that the next statutory holiday is in APRIL. (What part of big-cold-country-where-it’s-dark-a-lot-from-October-to-April says  “Go three months without a holiday”? Fuck!)

So, knowing that today presents pretty much the most intimidating longterm view of the year, well, I’m about to make a little extra coffee and enjoy the moody mindfuck that comes with the mix of GET’EM Optimism™ and We’re All Fucked Now® moodiness.

But I can be a fatalist. This I know. I’m used to it. I write amazing death scenes. Death by anchor? Wrote it. Death by bookshelf? Wrote that. Death by time management? Lived THAT.

There I was, being all fatalist but trying anyway to be “up” this morning. I started fucking around with my iPhone. No, I don’t have a lot to do in the next, oh, year of my life, so why not choose this morning to start deleting photos off it?

And then I hit some shots I took along Vancouver’s bike routes.

And then I remembered: Two years ago, I started cycling to work by February 10th. I lost 50 pounds that year. I changed everything about myself — or at least started the ball rolling. Sure, I blew out my back and had one of the toughest years ever from October on, but I lost 50 pounds!

And then I realized: Everything I did wrong two years ago, I won’t do now. I take my vitamins now. I know more about eating for athleticism. I’ve learned how to stretch properly. I own better furniture. I have more exercise options open to me. I’m less scared to ask for help. I’m more willing to try new things than ever.

It’s a completely different year.

Of course, it’d be easier to be stoked this morning if I wasn’t still sick. But I am. That, too, is a good thing. I was sick right before my year of crazy advances began in 2008, too. Just added fuel to my fire.

Having been there before, knowing what it took to have the success I had — and knowing what caused the injury I suffered — makes something about the daunting view a little more… accessible. I know I can do this. I know I can.

But it’s not just that I KNOW I can do it.

It’s that I realize today I have another chance to prove not only to myself that I can lose 50 pounds in a year, but that I can do it without driving myself into the ground with injuries and not-good-enough nutrition.

I like proving things.

It’s fun.

But this is gonna be real damn hard, too.

And then I see the iPhone photos again and I realize, it ain’t all hard.

A lot of it is rewarding. All of it is empowering. And, often, it’s fun, too.

Mostly, though, it’s just gold when you get to the other side and you did exactly what you hoped you could do. And, me, I’ve done some shit most people don’t think they could ever do — like lost 70 pounds.

Once, I didn’t think I could do it, either. I think that was somewhere around January 4th, 2008.

Well, then. It’s time to take a deep breath and realize it might be a whole new year but I got the same big damn heart.

Let’s do this.

Me, I was both ignorant of just how bad my diet was, and dishonest about to what extent I was misbehaving. That was then. Now I’m only ever guilty of the  lack of accounting. Ignorance isn’t such a problem anymore.

But that’s the thing with weightloss. Everyone talks like it’s only about the diet or the exercise, but, for me, the head game’s been at least 50%, maybe more, of my success.

I doubt I’m alone on that.

Once one wraps their head around the head game — whether that means learning the true calorie count behind food, really owning up to how many calories enter in a day, or just learning what the right amount of food one should eat* — the rest of it falls into place, because it’s not about willpower, it’s about simply making the correct, healthy choice. Once you know the true damage behind that apple fritter, believe me, that choice isn’t hard to make.

There’s a world of difference, though, between merely receiving a reality cheque and having the balls to cash it.

Fact is, sustained weightloss can often be managed with small changes. It need not be some radical 180-reversal overnight, and probably shouldn’t be.

All my changes over the last couple years have been small, but the compounded effect? Monster. Gradually, I made litle changes — brown rice, not white; whole wheat pasta; more beans, a veg with every meal — and now, two years later, I couldn’t stomach the food I used to eat en masse even if I tried. It’s foreign, and offensive, to me now. Although I go for phases still where I do eat badly, I almost never eat anything near as badly as I once did. It’s just that I know how bad not-good-but-not-horrible can be, when added meal upon meal upon meal.

The opposite effect, though? Little changes compounded atop little changes, over a long term, amount to massive changes overall. Believe me.

You will WOW yourself if you slowly, consistently, make little additions of good behaviour to your routine. It’s not about becoming perfect at weightloss this week — it’s about setting a positive framework to which you can continue to add and improve over the next years of your life. It’s like all true change — implemented practically and realistically, the results can be staggering. Too-much-too-soon often is done at an unrealistic pace and doesn’t often sustain. “Slow and steady” is ideal for weightloss. It’s why I can have the hard year I had and still be down 20 pounds total this year, because I didn’t set unrealistic expectations for myself — I simply changed my lifestyle and my lifestyle changed me.

I may have gained 8 of my 70 pounds lost back this winter, but that’s actually typical for me over Christmas, so I don’t even give a shit about it. That’s just my holiday thang. It’s my stuffing, I know it’s my stuffing, but that’s a price I’ll pay, ‘cos, like, it’s turkey stuffing, man. Balance, grasshopper! Choose your failings. I choose Christmas.

STILL, I know I can, and will, bring it. I know how to be successful at weightloss. I’ve proven it. I’ve sustained it through the physically hardest year of my life, a fact that still astounds me, since I was on THIS side of that.

Losing weight ain’t some fucking holy grail. The food industry wants everyone ignorant, and that’s how it’s played out, and look how fat we all got.

What is weightloss? Simply put, it’s…

• eating slightly less than what your recommended caloric intake is (too little will fuck you up and you WILL gain weight — your body’s a machine & needs food; specific kinds at specific quantities — science).
• exercising as often as you can (it’s actually considered more effective for weightloss if you do cardio in separate 20+ -minute chunks because it activates metabolism each time, ergo burns fat).
• being active in little ways as often as possible (take stairs, not elevator, park further, etc) because every physical effort counts against every calorie you eat.
• being accountable and realizing EVERY SINGLE CALORIE counts and you can’t fake your body out, this shit’s science, so if it goes in your mouth, it goes on your ass.

Most of all, though, you gotta tackle this from a place of love. You’re not losing weight because you’re a loser and no one loves you, you’re not being active because you’re a fat-ass and have no self-esteem — you’re eating well and being active because you VALUE yourself NOW. You NEED to believe that. You ARE worth the effort. You’re not a failure for doughing up — you’re a success that got interrupted. Period. Now matters, not then, not tomorrow — now.

You’re taking control. You can do it, you will do it, and you’re worth the effort and time and passion that it takes to live a healthy, managed life.

And it’s not about the number on the scale. It’s about the feeling inside. If you feel good, if you have more energy, if your mindset’s more balanced, if your stress level’s mitigated — then isn’t THAT what you want? Don’t kill yourself to be some size the magazines tell you to be. It AIN’T about that, and the struggle to be that can be more harmful to you than just living a good, balanced life.

Perfection? The “ideal” weight? For what, so you can be “wanted” and envied? Why you wanna perfect yourself for anyone who’ll only want you when you’re perfect? Who cares if they envy you, if it leaves you envying someone else for living a simpler life than you? Perfection’s an awful tough life to set oneself up for. Instead, strive for contentment, feeling good, and having energy, then focus on living life, not seeking perfection.

Me, I have my size / weight goal because I know I haven’t killed myself to lose weight yet, and I know it’s been coming off properly as I apply myself. If I’m living healthy and not losing anymore weight, then so be it. I’ll live with that, but I don’t think that’s the case. When I start behaving, my metabolism goes through the roof, so that’s an indicator to me that I’ve got the room to improve. The goals I’ve set for ME seem reasonable, weighed against the experience I’ve had so far, but I’m open to re-evaluating, and even scaling down my goals because I’ve not been under 200 pounds since I was 18 — what the hell do I know about who all this will make me? I’m winging it, but so far, where I want to go, is about 40 pounds from here.

But that’s not the standard YOU have to live by. “Healthy” means different things for us all.

Just make sure you’re being honest with yourself when deciding what “healthy” means for you. Don’t take the easy road out because you don’t think you can handle it.

If a person who was as fucked up and depressed as I was when I started my path to wellness could manage to take 70 pounds off over 2 years, even with a year of that spent rehabbing a blown back, and still find it in me to enjoy wine, cheese, and red meats… well, you probably can too. Losing weight isn’t a death sentence to deny yourself — it’s a life-sentence of balance and awareness, and that means enjoying the things you love, too. Maybe just a little less of it, is all.

Again: Here’s to us all kicking ass in 2010.

Citius, altius, fortius, baby.

*Because a lot of overweight people try to lose weight but eat too little, which triggers the opposite effect and they gain weight — education is CRUCIAL to weightloss, and to assume you know ANYTHING is arrogant; go in open-minded and learn everything you can. Science is always bringing new information to light.

Heart attack, in case you didn’t know, is one of the most common demises after long battles with eating disorders. Why?

“When anorexia has become this severe, the heart is often damaged. Not only is there not enough body fat to keep internal organs like the heart protected, but anemia, which weakens the blood, and the poor circulation which results in a lower body temperature means that the heart is unable to pump and circulate blood as effectively as it might otherwise. The loss of muscle mass can also apply to the heart, meaning that the muscles of the heart can physically weaken, and an overall drop in blood pressure and pulse can contribute to slower breathing rates. Unfortunately, if not remedied, these risks can lead to death.”

- Excerpt found here.

In this more recent photo, it’s obvious she’s too thin. Her head is bigger than her waist. That’s beauty? Really?

My eating problems have been, and will continue to be, the struggle of my life. I can’t imagine the emotional and spiritual pressurecooker a life in Hollywood would have been for someone as fucked up as I once was. I can’t imagine how emotionally fragile teens and young adults navigate the psychic timebomb that working in the film & beauty-focused industries must be.

Every time another death like this happens, it takes weeks to find the cause. By then, the emotional impact of that celebrity’s loss has evaporated, and the angst over the stupidity of how they died and how needless it was, that just evaporates too.

There is no reason for anyone to die like this, assuming she’s dead of anorexia, but I daresay I’m not reckless to jump to that conclusion.

There is no reason an industry should sanction the kind of pressure many starlets feel to do this to themselves.

There is no reason you as an audience can’t stop supporting this endless vacuum life of never-good-enough by continuing to purchase magazines that perpetuate too-thin-is-beautiful aesthetics.

It’s time that we jump to conclusions. It’s time we get angry that somehow we’ve institutionalized Wasting Away as some kind of beautiful virtue that all women should aspire for, or that we seem somehow justifying the ever-fattening of our society by pleading for “fat acceptance” and talking about “weight discrimination,” instead of tackling both these problems in the education system.

Eating disorders, whether eating ourselves to morbidly obese deaths or wasting away via starvation, kill the soul long before they kill the self.

Kate Moss is famous for having said that nothing tastes as good as being thin feels. Really? She hasn’t had my chicken pot pie, man.

Life is meant to be lived — food savoured, bodies worshipped, comfort enjoyed.

Despite my strong beliefs on these issues, I will lose 30 pounds by next August. But I’ll do it still having beers and burgers, cheese and wine, because those are parts of life I should value too, and without guilt. The thing is? Food isn’t just about eating, it’s about who you’re eating with.

Food is community. Via community, food becomes communication. It’s about soul and companionship, slowing down and focusing on one thing in a moment in a big world. Food has always been the cornerstone to our societies — any society — and their social structure.

Because food and the celebration of it is so integral to our world — look at the dread of Christmas weight, because we all associate the treats with the warmth & glory of the season — people with these afflictions are robbed of much of life’s joy.

When someone suffers an eating disorder, it becomes toxic to every level of their life. They have to lie to loved ones, live duplicitously.  It kills the soul, then the self.

The tragedy here isn’t just that Brittany Murphy is dead.

The tragedy is, we all helped.

If you support the magazines and the industries pushing these unrealistic and perverted ideals of what “beauty” consists of, you’re helping to perpetuate this endless cycle of thin-is-not-thin-enough.

I haven’t bought a single beauty magazine in 10 years, and I’ve never seen obvious hot-chick-vehicle movies, so I know I’m not a part of this endless cycle of stupid. Are you?

Who else do I blame?

Men.

The guys I talk to claim they like “real” women. Oh? Well, Hollywood’s marketing this to you. Where’s your outcry? Where’s your steadfast roar about how great cushion-for-the-pushin’ is? Where’s your willingness to say outloud that a little extra somethin’-somethin’ works for you? Where’s your insistence that a size 10 is a perfect 10?

Because I’m not hearing it.

Instead of all this bullshit “Aww, Brittany, we hardly knew ye” in-mourning-platitudes crap we’ll be hearing for the next week, let’s get real, all right?

Yeah, Brittany, we knew you had an eating disorder. We tried to shame and mock you for it, instead of help you. We didn’t point fingers at the industry that helped make you fitted for a size extra-thin coffin in your 32nd year. We didn’t say to ourselves “Well, she’s not alone, maybe there’s something needing fixing here.”

Because though we’ve said all that shit before it’s obvious we never meant it, because the magazines keep selling, we keep buying, and thin girls keep dying.

Wake the fuck up, world.

One of those things I’m gonna have to learn now? Flirting. Truth be told, I’m a pretty terrible flirt as a result being fat and completely lacking in pride for my last couple decades.

I’ve faked it really well over the years, thanks to the marvel of online dating.

Now? I’m losing interest quickly in pursuing men online — it’s just not worth the hassle, neither in traditional dating realms nor on the newer avenues, like Twitter. But it’s also because I’ve done ENOUGH, I think, to justify moving away from my horrid “last resort” avenues I always had to use.

In the past, I felt online dating sites were all the shag-opportunities I had available to me. After all, what man would want damaged goods weighing in close to 300 pounds, a girl who didn’t believe what she claimed she offered?

Now, though? Things have changed. I may still want to lose more weight, but I’m also happier with how I look than I ever have been. Content? No. Happy-er. In the winter of our societal discontent, I’ll take that.

This whole growing-into-a-new-person thing is really tough and strange sometimes. There’s no guidebook for how to be truer to yourself when you’ve been false and cruel to yourself for most of your life.

That’s what I was, after all. I lied to myself about how I felt about life, I lied about why life hurt me and how I dealt with it, and I punished myself when I ate myself into oblivion. I let my body deteriorate. I wasn’t grateful enough for what I had.

When you’re like that, I believe it radiates — maybe not to everyone, but at least to the people who know it when they see it. I know I radiated discontent for several years — anyone could have seen it in my eyes then.

It made me feel invisible.

I didn’t get seen, I didn’t get attention. In the end, it was the same as much of my life — “Why would some guy off the street be interested in ME?”

Sure, I’m still a size 16 and not my old size 24, but I’m pretty damn cute.

Yet, when I get checked out now, it feels foreign. When guys are nervous around me, I’m still assuming they have other things causing the jitters, or that they need a bathroom break. It’s really odd, getting used to being someone who’s clearly more attractive than I once was. And I still don’t really know what I exude, what it appears like to the outside observer.

But I’m learning.

Not very friggin’ fast, though. Earlier this year I recounted an Epic Flirting Fail that’ll probably give you a chuckle, you can find that one here.

For a while there, I thought guys checking me out were actually judging me. I thought it was a negative thing. No, I’m not stupid — I’m a girl overcoming a LIFEtime of insecurities.

And it doesn’t get overcome overnight. It’s a relearning of one’s self. It’s hard.

I don’t ever want to forget how much it hurt to be Invisible Girl. I do wish it was easier to get past the years of emotional hurts, the intrinsic betrayals that come when you don’t believe you deserve good people around you. I wish it were easier.  But it’s not. Life doesn’t come in size “Easy”.

So, just the mere act of connecting with some strange guy’s eyes on the commuter trains after a long day, that’s… that’s huge. I don’t look away in shame anymore — I look away because they’re not my type. This has been a recent development, too. First time in my life I’ve felt able to do that.

It’s… it’s really huge. Because it means I feel worthy. I’m worthy of them, or at least worthy of the idea of them.

Don’t miscontrue all this opening-up about my flirting fails to mean I couldn’t get comfortable sexually with a guy once I knew we had a connection. Don’t think it meant I couldn’t make love with the lights on or pad around naked or even initiate sex. I’ve been good on all THOSE counts for years — once I’ve had that “wow, I dig you” chat with a fella I fancy.

The last year, I’ve not been flirting at all, with anyone. I haven’t had sex since before I injured my back, and I frankly haven’t been interested at all until recently. Now I think it’s time to really just try again…

…But the problem is?

I’m tired of the online thing. I’m tired of feeling like THAT’S how I have to meet men. My schedule and life demands don’t allow me the freedom of being as social as other people get to be, so that interferes, too. My inability to flirt with guys I barely know in person still? That’s totally interfering.

And I want that. I want that for the first time in my life since high school and college — some guy picking ME out of the crowd and saying, “Yeah, she’s my type…” and making the approach. I want old-school, old-fashioned connections — not this online shit that feels like I’m somehow copping out and going for the FailSafe option.

Perhaps that’s why I’m not rushing things. Perhaps the old black-and-white-movies fan in me wishes for some classic dating fireworks that skips this horribly impersonal digital revolution. Bogey and Bacall. An arrested crossing of a hotel lobby ‘cos you’re floored when you see THOSE eyes, you know? Such a romantic, me.

…And the problem was?

I stopped working out. When I’m not active, I don’t feel hot. When I’m exercising and strong, I think dirty little thoughts, my blood flows, I get more charged about life in general. Without it, there’s a total self-security shutdown.

After losing 65 pounds, changing back to an old lifestyle “but being smarter about it”, causes one to feel like a fraud. It’s not ABOUT the numbers, and people are lying to themselves if they think it is. It’s about the change. Lose the change? You lose the right to the boast of the accomplishment. That’s how I feel about it. I’m no fucking fraud, man.

Now, I’m getting my game on. My back is mostly healed. My attitude about life is better than it’s been in years. I’m getting more and more attention.

And I like it.

Soon, I’m sure I’m gonna figure out exactly what to do about it. Well… I know *what* to do about it. I know THAT very, very well. I could probably write a book about the WHAT to do about it.

I just need to GET TO the What.

Without needing a computer to make it happen, I hope. Joining the gym is a start. I’m fuckin’ impressive there. I make most of the skinny girls look like they’re getting a fuckin’ pedicure when they’re doing cardio, and I know it’s hawt.

And when I get the notice from the kinda guy who finally makes me my eyes go BOING like an old Warner Bros. cartoon, I thank god all it really takes is the right innocently-dirty smile and sparkle in the eyes. And god knows I have those; I just need to conjure them on unexpected demand now.

Yet another fun project for the year ahead.

PS: Man, I can’t wait to see who I am a year from now. I really, really can’t. Each of the last two Christmases has been a pretty wild journey-of-self ride. This is just another.

It’s the Olympic year in Vancouver, you know. “Citius. Altius. Fortius.” Faster. Higher. Stronger.

Considering a couple years ago I weighed 65 pounds more, couldn’t run a block, do a single push-up, and was 8 sizes larger, being faster, getting higher, and becoming stronger than I already am will be a challenge. And I’m so up for it!

I’ve had a really hard time not going all medieval on my psyche in the last few months. I know when my workout will broke. Hell, my will shattered. June 13th, when I blew out my back again. Spent the next 2-3 months rehabbing TWO back injuries. Oh, joy. So, I stopped everything.

Then, of course, began the mental heavy lifting this summer, followed by therapy (begun because I found out I could get it for free, and you’re a fucking idiot if you don’t at least give it a shot when you literally have nothing to lose), and the last thing I needed was more mental pressure.

But, game’s on, kids.

Bought my gym membership yesterday. I’ve gone two days in a row now, and plan to keep it up. I don’t give a fuck if you’re skeptical. You can be anything you wanna be, honey.

Anything you wanna be. But you just wait.

Getting my mental game back on has been hard — it means overcoming a lot of fear, mostly because I know EXACTLY what I have to do to have more of the success I’ve already tasted. First, I have had to walk right past the angst I have about stagnating for so long, because I also have had to understand that we simply do what we need to do when we need to do it. And I’ve done just that.

I have the comfort of knowing it took me a couple months to throw things into gear the first time I had my massive weightloss. This is apparently how I roll, it’s my process.

Being back in it, though, means making choices — knowing where my priorities lie. That’s tough at a time like this, socially, when everyone’s out and eating before Christmas. It gives me an excuse to avoid parties and unhealthy food, though, for the most part. I’m trying to hold off being really social for ONE more week. Lay the ground work, start the battle. You know. Socializing at Christmas is great and fun, but it’s also a lot more empty and pressure-filled. There’s only so much you NEED to do to feel a part of the holidays.

It’s been a long time since I’ve gone into Christmas with such positivity around me — promise for the year ahead. It’s one thing to tell yourself it’s promising, but it’s another to see it unfolding. There’s something incredible about just quietly believing inside that everything’s going to be fine again. Much better than the quiet fear you never want to put into words.

Well, 2009, you knew how to pack a whole lot into my life in one year — starting with my father nearly dying on New Year’s Eve & going into ICU, all the way to me magically clearing up my finances weeks before the year-end, and all the rehab and victories and grief in between.

What a ride. 8% remains. Let’s see whatcha got. And, 2010, you look fab, baby.

And I now remember washing a load of clothes on hot. Oops. Might account for shrinkage and the “AGH! WHAT HAVE I DONE!” panic.

Still, I’ve behaved badly lately, and today was stellar. Under 1,900 calories, three 20-minute exercise bursts, healthy food, all my water. This is good. A start. We like. I shall kick ass and take names. Again. In short order.

Really gotta watch that fucking clothes washer, man. Oh, the DRAMA. $1.75 and a cup of detergent can do a number on ya, baby.

Using cold water for clothes washing doesn’t just fight climate change, it saves your therapy bill.

I’ve been getting increasingly stressed out about several areas of my life, just because it’s coming down to the crunch and probably also because I’m incredibly skilled at making things more difficult than they need to be.

As a result, I’ve had sort of the perfect emotional storm that every recovering fatty wants to avoid. I know, all too well, that I’m an Emotional Eater. I nearly got to 300 pounds because I can be a very emotional girl, apparently.

I lost 70 pounds by proving I could overcome that. And then life just kept on coming and slowly I stopped overcoming and just coping.

But the last thing I needed last weekend was the Dad-has-cancer thing. Then I probably didn’t need to distract myself by being The Ultimate Hostess for a chicken pot pie extravaganza a few days ago. I also didn’t need my guests to be the incredibly awesomely generous people they are, and feed me BadnessThatTastesSuchGoodness. Because god knows I’m far fatter this weekend after everything that’s happened this week.

Now I’m taking stock. I’ve been avoiding my emotions, avoiding writing, avoiding people, avoiding honesty.

Shit happens.

I bounce back better when I bottom out. I’m not sure what it is, maybe the riccochet of shitty from hitting bottom HARD gives me the jump I need to effect effective change in short order. When I’m just gradually sucking, I feel like I have time to sort it out. But when I bottom out with style like I feel I have this week, I take a couple days of really digging deep, then I spring into action.

My problem right now is fairly simple. It’s accountability. I lost 70 pounds by KNOWING that EVERY little thing counts — whether it’s another flight of stairs you chose to climb or another pat of butter you chose to eat.

My body — my gut, my ass, my blood pressure — doesn’t give a shit if I have a good excuse to find solace in a cookie. And find solace, I will. I am an emotional eater. I will always be an emotional eater. Any one who claims they can change that about me is lying. But if I eat that cookie, regardless what my heart or soul feels, my body’s going to own that cookie in all the ways I wish it wouldn’t.

I can justify that cookie six ways to Sunday on a shitty day, but it’s science and my body WILL NOT justify that cookie. That cookie WILL expand my ass. Especially when I have 6 of them.

There are times when I’m strong enough to realize that. But maybe sometimes life feels like such a fight that the little things like, say, an easily attainable cookie, a moment of chocolate happiness in the midst of it all, maybe they really do make the difference between the eternal slog sucking or not.

Maybe? Good luck with that. Cookie’s got nothing on real happiness.

I’ve been weak, in every way. I’ve been emotionally at the point where you really just want Mom to tuck you in and say it’ll be okay in the morning. Of course, Mom’s dead, so good luck with THAT, needy girl.

OH, DON’T WORRY. It’s the emotional equivalent of wanting your blankie and wishing life’s problems could be like they were when you were six and Joanna wouldn’t give you back your Smurf figurine, okay? This “grownup” thing wears thin, I’s still a toughie.

But when the cancer thing was thrown into the mix, then the stress of having to pull off a dinner party on a work night, and THEN I got handed tasty wonderful things, well, yes, it’s the Emotional Eating Perfect Storm.

As a result, I’ve eaten badly. I’ve eaten incredibly badly. Add to that the rather-failed-experiment of getting up at 5 to work at 7, for the last month, and how that’s cut into my ability to write, and my tendency to shirk my exercising of late… and, yeah, I’m not in my happy place tonight.

It’s good though. I’m glad I shook up the mix and honestly tried a different schedule to see if that would help things, but the reality is, no. It didn’t. There’s nothing WRONG with me going into work late if it means I work out and write every morning. I can’t AFFORD a life, so why work earlier so I have one? None of that computes.

Tomorrow, I’ll go back to The Way Things Worked. I’ll be up at 6. I’ll work out. I’ll eat. I’ll write. I’ll work later. All good.

I tried to solve my problems the wrong way a month ago — I shook up the mix so much that it shook me up too. Then life shook me up more. To cope, I ate.

And I’m glad. I’m glad it’s all come apart at the seams. I’m glad I’m paying the price. I’m glad there were consequences for going off the wagon. When there aren’t, I get lax and push boundaries further.

None of this scares me. I’m pissed off at myself and in touch with my insecurities all over again, sure, but I’m also angry because I KNOW I can kick this shit. This is exactly like last Christmas when I blew my success all to hell after the arrival of THE BEST FOOD BASKET EVER. (Hull-less caramel popcorn still makes me titter and moan.)

Then I lost 12 pounds in 3 weeks by channeling that anger.

The hardest part of this will be getting off the drinking. I’ve become an emotional drinker, too, and it daunts me. Too much. Far too much.

For me, though, will power is ultimately a switch that gets flicked on and then is very hard to flip off. And vice versa. But I do flip it.

So where am I tonight? Somewhere between pissed as hell at myself, disappointed that old patterns re-emerge in tough times, and exuberantly excited at the knowledge that I’m about to prove everything I know I can prove to myself.

You know what it is? It’s choosing differently. That’s all. All of this — every bit of what troubles me now — all of it, it’s my choice.

I can choose differently.

And I am.

Luckily, I tend to pay attention.

Tuesday has been “headtrip day” for two weeks now. Yesterday was jam-packed — a night of chatting with one of my best friends immediately after another trip to the headshrink, and then this morning I got to watch last night’s The Biggest Loser.

And I’m not sure where to start, so let’s do the Tarantino end-middle-beginning-takes-you-to-a-new-ending thing, shall we?

Shay, of The Biggest Loser, is the biggest player in the show’s history, beginning at some 470 pounds or so. She’s trying to heal after being raised by a heroin addict mom who died young and left her in foster care, shopped around for the rest of her life. She’s 30 now, and realizing her life can start over. Knowing her weight is ENTIRELY about her level of fuctedness, she commented, “Each of these pounds is a wound.”

…Which turned the lightswitch on and I remembered my conversation with JT last night, about how I’m having a really hard time getting my game back on with the weightloss thing because of everything that’s been coming at me — what a time of chaos. Also, summer has made a valiant return, and knowing how seasonally depressed I get in the winter, I’m trying to seize the end of the sunshine, hamstrung by the shorter days, but also trying to get everything done I feel burdened to get done. Oh, and I’ve begun writing again. It’s just so hard for me to get everything settled enough to find a routine that works.

Now, keep in mind, I get my 3-4 hours minimum of activity per week, which is classified as a “healthy” lifestyle. I eat better than I ever have, but still have further to go, right? But I’m still better than most — just with too big of portions for me to lose weight. I’m maintaining my weightloss and living a tasty and literally “full” life.

But, as I was telling JT, I’m 5 pounds from breaking the weight I became around 18 years old — and when I do that, I undo ALL the physical harm that has happened since my life went from averagely-sucky to “You’re gonna need therapy for ALL this shit” when I hit 18, after my mom’s attempted suicide, stupid love, and all the drama and near-death events, etc,  that would follow for years.

Every one of these pounds is a wound.

And when I get past that emotional boundary, past the 200-pound mark, back into the territory of “normal” people, I prove to myself that I have literally overcome all that came at me in all those years.

Deep down inside, I don’t feel I have, and I wonder now if it’s part of why I’ve been stagnating at this weight for so long.

I don’t remember who I was before my life railroaded with my mother’s suicide attempt and the years of depression and self-hate that it’d spur for me. I don’t remember the girl I was in my teens… not really. I remember the insecurity was there even then, because I was still “heavy” fat, I just wasn’t “fatty-fat-fat” fat.

Every one of those pounds was a wound.

Every candy bar was a hug. Every sugary tasty drink was a soft sigh. Every extra helping was a wink and a hug. Every layer of fat was a blanket to wrap myself in against the harsh coldness of a big, bad world.

I’m realizing now that I haven’t been ready to heal all those wounds. Not yet.

This therapy I’ve begun is dredging up issues that are making me realize, I guess, just how much my eating really was a response to serious emotional challenges that just NEVER FUCKING STOPPED for 16 or 17 years. When there were lulls, I was so depressed* that it didn’t matter that the barrage had stopped, because the wounds had begun to fester and puss.

The walls I put up, man. Oh, the walls. When your method of coping is one that produces shame, you need to hide yourself. You need the walls. You need to be stoic in public, and beneath contempt in private. Because that’s how shame rolls. Trust me. I know.

I know far more about myself now than I care to share with the likes of you in a place like this. This is what I know.

But I don’t know everything, not about myself, not even close. The amount I’ve learned in the last year — since the one-year anniversary of blowing my back out and the biggest personal learning curve in my life — makes me shake my head in wonder.

I just don’t know how one person can absorb all that in a year. You know how you put a sponge in water, it soaks up everything it can, you pull it out, the gravity sucks half the water back out? For a moment, the sponge absorbed it all, and then it washed away. I kind of feel like that. I’m an overloaded sponge. Knowing this, I sometimes wonder what has washed away, what I’ve forgotten that I swore I’d remember, that I’d learn from.

So when my therapist asked me last night what I hoped to gain from my sessions with him, I just didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t really thought of a specific goal. What do I want to be? I want to be better. I want to be better at being comfortable with myself. I want to feel better about myself, not be so aware of the insecurities and fears I’ve been long trying to overcome. (And have made incredible strides with, really. Incredible.)

But, most of all, I guess I just want some guidance making it through the last of my journey.

It’s not 5 pounds I need to lose. It’s not 50 pounds I need to lose. It’s many years of wounds. That’s what I need to lose.

At this point, it’s proving harder than just getting on a bike. Yet, at the same time, it’s not harder than that. THAT is all I need to do. Work. It’s inarguable, it’s science. That’s weightloss; work more, eat less.

But right now? It’s about the wounds. I’ve proven I can melt my ass. I know I will do every bit I’m of mind to do. I’ve not known why NOW wasn’t the time for me to do so… until now. Knowing? Priceless. I’ve long known I was scared to break that boundary, because once I’m not so obviously damaged with that big “200-something” weight, then who will I be?I just haven’t been willing to admit it, not really.

You don’t have a fucking clue who I’ll be, nor do I. And I can pretend to be as excited as I want to be, but deep down inside, I’m still scared. You don’t realize the foggy, hazy dream we lifelong fat people have of our thin selves — it doesn’t exist because we can’t imagine how we’ll look. We don’t know what our bone structure looks like, or what’s possible for our features when all that fat vanishes.

Doesn’t change the fact that I *will* make the weightloss happen in entirety, it just acknowledges that I finally maybe understand why it might not happen right now.

And I’m okay with that.

*Incidentally, probably 70% of my depression, I now realize, was made far worse by bad diet and no exercise. As soon as I was exercising three times a week and eating less sugar, taking vitamins, I had to go OFF my anti-depressants within three months, because I’d regulated my chemistry myself. I still have ups and downs, but they’re natural ups and downs.

“Motion is lotion” and “Pain is weakness leaving the body.” Maybe now I’ll forget the love affair I’ve recently ignited with my sofa.

It’s the season premiere of The Biggest Loser tonight, and it’s proving to be a bit of an emotional experience. A seriously emotional one, really.

This comes after a rather wound-picking-ish therapy session after work. [insert heavy sigh here]

The show’s reminding me of how far I’ve come, yet how far left I have to go.

I’ve been exhausted now for a long time. I’m starting to hit my stride again, but not really. Not full-on. It’s been tough, and now it’s a little emotionally turbulent, too.

People don’t get it, sometimes. I don’t think people realize how hard and long it is that one needs to work to take off 70 pounds, or what 9 months consecutive of 6-day-a-week intense back-rehab is like in the midst of all that. This has been my last TWO YEARS. I have been just… whew, going at it, I guess, for almost all that time.

And I trick myself, right? I’ve been very antisocial, so hanging out at home makes me think I’m not doing anything, but all those nights I used to stay at home, I’d be writing then working out while watching television.  Two years of pretty much 5-8, sometimes 10+ hours of working out a week.

Though I’ve allowed myself to go off-program,  I knew the day was coming I’d get my shit back together and get the game on. (A gradual occurrence over the last week, I’m happy to report.)

But this show, man… these contestants are at their worst right now. I’m remembering how I felt and who I was those 70 pounds ago. A little too raw-like. My god, how I hated being that. And lord knows I tried to pretend I didn’t. But I did. You know what? I really don’t want to help you understand what that felt like. Or why I still feel that ringing in my ears sometimes.

Something that sort of irks me but I highly doubt I’ll stop doing, is that I’m really quick to volunteer the info that I’ve lost a whole shitload of weight. In some ways, it must seem arrogant or needy to others, but it’s not like that. Sometimes I feel like, if I don’t say it out loud, it’s not real. I technically know what I’ve done, but I somehow still feel much the same inside some days. Not the loathing or anything, but I can go days where I don’t physically feel that much thinner… not went-from-size-22-to-a-14 thinner.  Maybe that’s mostly because I’ve slipped into a mindset of forgetting. All I really need to do is, go to a movie and consciously think of how I feel in that seat,with  room enough to drop arms down by my side, no chair digging into my pudgy ribs. Sure, I’ve weight to lose, but I don’t have THAT anymore.

But I have to consciously be aware of that newness-of-me in each moment. These lack-of-Steff happenings, ie: no thigh-rubbing, are recent phenomena in ‘09, after 20+ years of the opposite.

Seriously, when the average woman has a “fat day”, she’s feeling maybe 5 or 10 pounds heavier. _I_ have a fat day, I’m feeling like I’m literally pushing 300 pounds, nearly 100 pounds heavier, okay? Why? Because I KNOW what it’s like to LIVE in that body, and most of YOU probably will never have the foggiest fucking notion.

And then when I _do_ have that moment of remembering “Yes, I did that”, I remember specific moments in sports and activities where I thought I was gonna die — like that July day where the “oh, 10 or 12k in the mountains” bike ride turned out to be a 19km one that ended with a stunning 6km ascent up the side of a motherfucking mountain with a vicious 50km wind heading straight at me. That SUCKED. And I did it.

Oh, my god, has this all sucked the marrow from me. Now I pay. It’s coming back, though. Lifeblood returns.

As I ready myself for what I know is the next long, hard, but ultimately BEYOND-worth-it next leg of the journey, I’m finding myself caught in an emotional swirlie that’s getting hard to let go of this evening.

Still, here are three things I know tonight: 1) What success takes, 2) that I’ve already had MUCH success, and that 3) I can fucking rock this bitch.

But I’d be a liar and a fool if I said I’m not hurting a little as I muster the courage to go there, that I’m not scared of the obstacles that lay before me, or that there isn’t a niggling of doubt that this is the time I get exposed for the fraud my insecure inner-self thinks I am, or flat-out fear that failure awaits or I’ll return to the flabby Steff of old.

That’s why, in some ways, this weightloss I’ve accomplished so far, and the rest I know will happen over the next year or so, is my existential scaling of Mount Everest. This is as big as it will ever get for me. I’ve spent two years hammering at myself emotionally and physically, and it’s gotten me to here. So far to go.

Dude… it’s gonna be a long year. But: 3) I can fucking rock this bitch.

Winter and I aren’t on the best of terms. It’s safe to say I loathe it. When I’m older and in the money, I’ll certainly be a in-Mexico-from-January-to-March type. I dread the depressive grey. My hydro bill for December and January could be a teaser for any marathon horror movie session. HOW MUCH? EEK! Fuck Climate Change; if it lights up, I’m plugging it in.

As if it’s not a moody enough day, I might add that I’m not entirely thrilled that I started therapy yesterday, by the way. Oh, that.

I’m a little nervous. And the dude’s sneaky. He’s an ADD shrink. Hops and jumps around on topics to keep me on my toes. Bit of a sticky-mindfuck-lite. Uht-oh. Eek.

Interesting week for it, too.

Last week was spent mostly beating myself up in the post-wallet-loss debacle. Something woke me up there, that my situation’s too precarious and hinges on, you know, a positive existential tailwind and all the cosmos lining up in a none-too-offensive manner.

I’ve taken most of the summer off from the intensely regimented life I’ve lived since October 2007. I’ve had more slack with eating, exercise, and pace, and I bonded very affectionately with copious alcohol on pretty much a daily basis for eight or so weeks.

But that’s all done. (This is NOT me saying I’m NOT drinking anymore. Are you NUTS? This is me saying DAILY can’t happen. But… there are weekends!) I know what needs to happen, and I’m prepared, and even keen, to get right back at it.

As much as I loathe winter, I am ecstatic that its dull routine and boring predictability rotation of “shitty,” “dreary,” “pray for your life,” and “BLAH” weather that it brings here in Vancouver. If it IS sunny, it’ll be sunny between 9-5 and most of us will never see it.

In that routine, however, is where I find my stride. I’ll be exercising all the time at home when watching TV, since it’s the main kind of entertainment I can afford. I’ll be walking everywhere this winter, presumably without a seriously blown back this time. I’m excited to see how well I can do the weight-loss this winter. I’ll be happy if it’s like last — I lost some 25+ pounds last winter, including Christmas. (I gained 10 but took that off, so, technically, lost 35. Ha!) I never even had a gym pass.

This winter, I’m facing my reality of having lived too close to the bone financially for far too long. I want my power back; I need to start saving and feeling secure, not so vulnerable as I have been. To that end, this winter’s challenge will be having to eat home cooking all the time; I can’t afford a large entertainment bill and I’d rather spend my wad on concerts and movies, ‘cos my cooking beats the shit out of what’s available in MY budget in “restaurants”.

Ironically, my budget will cause me to lose weight. Why? Because eating in restaurants is what’ll kill your diet and give you the big bouncy ass.

Funny enough, what’s caused me to be in this tight-and-no-safety-net financial pickle this year is having been so social earlier this year — I really made some stupid spending decisions when I was eating out all the time. It was fat, unhealthy food fairly often, too, but it was a profound realization that, HEY, I can have a life, eat out, yet maintain my weight. And I did. I had thought I would GAIN weight moving out of the hermit-like diet I’d had of home cooking in all my weightloss, so to have maintained and even lost, well!

I’ve probably only lost about 10 pounds since April, give or take. But I’ve lost about four inches since March. So, we’ll see where this all leads this winter, now that I’m having to accept where I’m at, prepare for the financial humdinger that is Christmas, and get into a physical routine. I suspect this will be awesome for my body, actually, and I look forward to feeling that.

But, joy of joys, into that challenging mix of life I’m also throwing therapy. Oh, and a new pursuing-writing professional plan, that’s for me to know. Well. This’ll be interesting.

The weight/eating/money thing I’ve already sorta been on, so I’m daunted only in that I know how much determination and dedication it will require. I’m comforted to know that I have that, and then some. Doesn’t mean I don’t respect the obstacles ahead or feel a little dread as I plant my feet firmly in the ground before I accept the weight of the burden, you know? I’m confident, I’m guardedly optimistic, but I don’t have that bubbly enthusiasm about facing it I know other people can manage. That’s just me. Still… let’s do this, bitch. Right?

Therapy will be good for writing. It’ll be good for the diet, too, given I tend to be an “emotional” eater. Being aware of myself, though, and owning what I’m experiencing, I tend to revert to eating-for-comfort a whole lot less; writing less this summer, I’ve found myself doing just that and eating more questionably. I think a lot of success I’ve had in the weightloss, too, comes from being willing to explore that emotional link with food and how it started. I’ve been avoiding a lot of that this summer, given what I’ve waded into with all the total-home-purge and sorting-through-my-past stuff I did the last two months, but I HAVE done the work, and I’m content to get back at that, as well.

Yes, it’s a weighty, oppressive pall out there, today. The kind of day that turns one inside and forces all sorts of thoughts. The kind of day that forces me to accept the changing of seasons is upon us, and the time for buckling down and getting back into my groove is here. Dread accompanies that knowledge, but so too does determination. To me, the changing around me is an opportunity to use that to fuel change ABOUT me, too.

What more can I tell ya? Knowing’s half the battle, right?