Damage control

The damage has been done.

Today, I tucked my tail between my legs and headed back to Weight Watchers. It's been three weeks since I showed my face in a meeting. Three weeks of terrible eating. Three weeks of old Erika rearing her ugly, sad head.

I knew it would be bad. I was right. I gained 6.8 pounds.

There it is. The number in black and white, now written for all eternity in my Weight Watchers weight log.

But things are looking up--at least a little. I'm trying to climb my way out of the dark. Saturday I went to the Silver Comet Trail and started (in earnest this time) the Couch to 5K program. I did my second day yesterday and faced one of my biggest fears--running on the treadmill (I can walk on a treadmill all day long, but with running, I have a fear of  tripping and flying off the back--I managed to stay upright, at least).

For the past two days, I've tracked my food diligently. So, I'm trying.

I was saying today in my Weight Watchers meeting--and I may have blogged about this before--that there was a time in my life where food served its purpose. Maybe my compulsive overeating protected me in some ways when my mom died. Maybe it stopped me from doing other things to harm myself. I don't know.

What I do know is that overeating no longer makes me feel better. It no longer comforts me. It makes me feel worse--physically and emotionally. And right now, I just don't need anything to make me feel worse.

I'm trying to remember that when I want to swing by Zaxby's, or pick up a Big Mac. Those things will not help me feel less sad.

And this too shall pass.