I've done good. 70 pounds down, not shabby. But the last couple weeks I've been sliding. The scale hasn't much reflected it, but the way I've been eating has, and the scale is sure to follow. OK. That's a lie. The scale isn't going down. That's how it is reflecting. I'm no longer losing. I'm maintaining, and soon I will be gaining.
I could wax poetic for a bunch of paragraphs, but I'll just claim the truth of it and work with that.
So here it is: my depressed and anxiety-prone adult child is living with us again. For four years we went through, (dragging us with) a nightmare with her as she entered her teen years, barreling through them with drugs, alcohol, risky behavior and excitement, with disregard for everyone around her. I haven't healed from all of that yet, and now we find her back with us. I still have kids in the house who are not grown, which sets off a whole different dynamic.
I'm scarred, and not yet healed from the trauma that we went through. Having her here again has re-opened wounds. The only good thing about having her home is that we know where she is at night, and we know she's not out on the streets doing who knows what. Been there, not easy, but you learn to live with it. I'm not saying it's right or good or even going to "work" letting her stay here in the long run. I'm just saying it is what is now.
Through all those years I never went to counseling. I survived, I got through. I learned and grew as a mother and a human being. I suffered. A lot. More than I care to think of right now. I believe I have a some PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) from all of those years of trauma, lies, fear.
Just as I started to find some peace and healing, acceptance... it comes crashing down again. I've been taking Xanax, occasionally. I went to a counselor for the first time two weeks ago. I'm anxious and irritable, depressed. Feeling the stress in nearly every corner of my world.
I feel horrible, complaining like this, which is why I haven't said anything about it. But today, as I looked at my nearly expended calories, felt stuffed to the gills, poured a Guinness (drank half, then poured it out), climbed in my car for a chocolate run (with a kid in tow to run into the store for me -- I look a hot mess), came back and ate 200 calories of Hershey's (half of that in the car, and half on the couch, still within my calorie range) - and then within a half-hour decided to completely blow it, made an egg bagel, slathered with butter and a dash of grape jelly (I never eat this crap, so I know I'm on a binge), eat it furiously and sit down to type this? I know I have to face it, claim it, name it, pray about it, give it up to God -- whatever I can do to not be consumed by it.
This is where the tough part comes in, honey. And it is tough. Because the most wicked saboteur is not friends, family, commercials, celebrity or anything else. It's SELF. And I was wondering when it would kick in. I was wondering when my willpower and drive would fail. And it is now. When the manure hits the fan.
If I can't keep on the path, despite my unhappiness, then I have problems. I need to face this problem, whatever it is at the root, dig it up and get rid of it.
I don't know how yet. But I'm standing in the hole with a shovel, ready to cut into the root, or pull the dirt over my head.