Dreams come true--but hopefully not all of them

It was a few weeks ago when I woke up in a cold sweat. I could not shake this dream.

I'm always sort of jealous of people who have vivid dream lives--I've never been one of them. I rarely remember my dreams. But this one hasn't left me yet.

I was standing in this huge hotel ballroom on a stage surrounded by complete strangers. Next to me was my fiancé, microphone in hand, fielding questions and comments from the crowd.

"Yes, you, ma'am. What did you want to tell Erika about her weight?"

"And you, tell her why she'll be the fattest, ugliest bride in history?"

First of all, no more "Say Yes to the Dress" before bed. Or maybe ever. Yeah, probably ever.

Second, oh yeah, I'm engaged.

At the end of May, my boyfriend and I went to the beach, where he got down on one knee--shocked the hell out of me--and proposed with my grandmother's beautiful ring. The surprises kept coming, when a bunch of my family and friends joined us to celebrate. I had no idea any of it was happening. I was overwhelmed by so much love.

Since then, I've struggled with a lot of different emotions. I don't think I'm your typical bride to be. Maybe it's because I'm older. Maybe it's because I never thought this would ever happen to me. Maybe it's because I'm stressed about how we're going to afford this. And sadly, maybe it's because I'm most struggling with feeling that I don't deserve this.

I know deep down that I do deserve this. But I think that I've let myself slide so far backward that I don't know where to start again. I don't WANT to have to focus on my weight on  my wedding day. I don't want to not be able to breathe because I'm so undergarmented to death that I can't even do the Wobble (oh, and you bet your sweet booty, there will be Wobbling).

I'm so tempted to crawl under my covers and pretend this isn't happening. That's messed up, isn't it? I mean, something is totally wrong with me, no?

I love my fiance. I adore him. He makes me happy. He loves me and protects me in the fiercest way I never thought was possible. But, since we've been engaged, I find myself more easily irritated with him. I know a big part of that is my judging him for wanting to be with me forever. I mean, what's wrong with him?

I want to marry him. I want to be surrounded by the people who love us, who are already so excited for us. I want to feel beautiful and special and not worry about all this other junk that plagues me.

I just don't know how to do it.

I should be blogging. I should start over. But how do I do that? How, now, when I have such a huge life change looming?

I'm pondering all of this. I'll need you guys to help me through it. Because I might just be the most screwed-up bride of all time.

The hardest day of the year

I'm blaming it all on that effing Publix commercial.

You know the one. Pregnant mom making cookies with her daughter. Talking about the little girl's future sibling. "You should tell her secrets, like what a great soccer player you are. Or what a wonderful big sister you're going to be," the mom says. The little girl suddenly hops off the stool, presses her lips to mom's pregnant belly and whispers, "You're really gonna love mom."

Ugh. Cue the ugly crying. Seriously, last year, full on sobs after the first time I saw it. It kind of sneaks up on you with the sweet mom sentiment. Stupid Publix.

As most of you know, I lost my mom to melanoma in 2000. That's when I really started secluding myself and eating until I numbed the pain a little.

I miss her terribly. Every day. And there are some days that hurt just a little more.

Last week a dear friend who also lost her mom several years ago texted me and said she'd been really emotional.

"Sneaks up on you, doesn't it? Missing your mom, I mean."

Boy, does it. I usually think I'm doing well. And then I realize I've been emotional and try to pinpoint why. Oh. Her birthday. The anniversary of her death. Mother's Day.

It's hard to avoid Mother's Day. Stores are fighting for our business to "Celebrate Mom!" My TV, email inbox and car radio are inundated. Sometimes, it just starts to get to me.

It's weird. I sometimes feel like I don't still have a right to be sad after all these years. But I am, and I'm going to forgive myself for it.

However, after all that being in control, I've lost a little bit of it the past week. I can't let that happen. In my vulnerable state, sure, maybe it's OK to forgive myself a day or two of emotional eating--but not a week of it.

So in honor of my mom and in honor of me. I'm going to put down the "I'm so sad" french fries, and go on a "Yes, I miss my mom, but let's think of all the happy memories" walk. Plus, I'm going to have a glorious mother's day, because my best friend's baby boy is being baptized Sunday and his mom and dad have blessed me by asking me to be his godmother. How special is that?

Oh, and I've also started changing the channel or putting my fingers in my ears and "La la la"ing anytime that dumb commercial comes on.

Suck it, Publix.

Love to all of you who are missing your moms, too. It's never easy, is it?
 

Erika and mom, c. 1976

Control...Now I've got a lot

I told you about weighing in for the first time in ages a couple of weeks ago, right?

Did I tell you that I've been tracking my points like a champ?

Because I totally have been. And it's working.

Today I weighed in for the first time since then (I was at a conference last week and couldn't go to the meeting). And I lost got rid of...

8.6 pounds.

Yay!

The little negative Nelly in me, of course, is reminding me that I had heavier clothes on when I weighed in before. It's reminding me that the nearly 80 pounds I've lost is nothing compared to the 130 I had lost. Nothing compared to the weight I gained back.

But you know what? Screw that little voice. Today I'm going to give myself a pat on the back and acknowledge that this isn't a fluke. I'm going to remind myself of the sacrifices I've made these last two weeks to stay on track. I'm going to applaud myself for being in control.

And I'm going to celebrate.

With a cupcake.

Just kidding.

Strongly vulnerable or vulnerably strong?

Sometimes it's best to know when you're powerless.

I'm often powerless over food. But there are definitely days when I'm more in control than others.

Today is not one of those days. Or maybe it really is one of those days.

Those of you in Atlanta may be familiar with the Sweet Auburn Curb Market. If you aren't, you're missing out. It's full of tons of yummies, including a produce market and lots of incredible restaurants. My favorite is Miss D's amazing Triple Popcorn, which combines caramel, butter and cheese popcorn to create a perfectly balanced combination of salty and sweet. My mouth is watering just thinking about it.

But I digress.

So, today, all the restaurants in the Curb Market are donating part of their proceeds to Children's Healthcare of Atlanta at Hughes Spalding. A whole group from my office is going. I've had it on my calendar for weeks.

I just totally canceled.

Today I'm not feeling strong enough to avoid the deliciousness of the Market. Today I think eating a salad while my friends eat burritos, barbeque and my beloved popcorn would feel like a sacrifice. Today I know I need to stay at work and eat the lunch I brought.

There are just some days you know better. And today is one of those days. Does that make me strong? Or extra vulnerable? Maybe it makes me strong to know I'm vulnerable.

For those of you feeling strong, needing a Friday treat or just wanting to have a delicious meal while helping kids at the same time, head to the Sweet Auburn Curb Market from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. today.

And have some popcorn for me, would ya? I'll be over here enjoying accepting my 9-point Lean Cuisine pizza.

Have a great weekend, friends. Next week--the triumphant return of My Favorite Things.

Thanks for sticking with me!

Opposite of love

There's a pretty well-known quote I've read a few dozen times. I've seen it written a few ways, but the one that always stands out to me is this: "The opposite of love isn't hate. It's apathy."

Apathy. Apathetic. A-pathetic.

Last week in our Weight Watchers meeting, our leader, Dee, asked us to sum up our weeks in one word. I said I could sum up my week, my last few months, heck, maybe even the last year or so with one word.

Apathy.

And apathy is a scary word.

Apathy means not caring. Apathy means having a lack of concern. A lack of enthusiasm. A lack of feeling. Apathy is how I lived my life for a long time.

If I really, truly examined the word, I'd find that none of those things apply to me--and probably never have. Not deep down, anyway. But apathy makes for an easier mask than what I really feel: fear, disappointment, regret.

So apathy it is.

But the truth is, I really do care. I care that my clothes don't fit. I care that I'm not in as good of shape as I was. I care that I'm kind of miserable. I care that I never go back to the way I used to be.

However, caring doesn't get you anything. Unless you try.

One of the things I love about my Weight Watchers meetings is that some of them are about the recipes and tips and tricks we want to share. And some of them--my favorites--are like mini therapy sessions. That's how last week's meeting was. It seemed many of us were having a hard time. It's always hard to admit that I--once on my way to total Weight Watchers success--have been a lot less than successful.

But I don't want to be apathetic. I don't want to be a pathetic anything. So I have to try.

Surrounded by my WW friends, I stood on that scale for the first time in months while they applauded me (literally). It was hard to see that number (even though I knew what it would be). I'm sad about how far I've let myself go.

But I'm not apathetic. So I've tracked my points like a perfect pupil since Tuesday--and I'm feeling better. More in control. I have a lot of things that I need to get ready for this year--the biggest of which is my 40th (gulp) birthday.

And ain't nobody got time for an apathetic 40-year-old.

So I apologize. I may just be basically rewriting this blog as a beginner and going through the same things I did when I first started four (!!) years ago. Wash, rinse, repeat.

I mean, practice makes perfect, no?

It's been one week...*

It was only a week.

Maybe I shouldn't be so excited.

Just a week.

Seven days.

Not much time.

But somehow, a lifetime.

One week. That's how long it's been since my last binge. And maybe it's too early to celebrate. That's OK. I'm going to quietly mark it down and remember today as a measured triumph. Today, I remind myself that if I can get through one week, I can get through two, or three or hundreds.

I may have to start over. I might have to come back next week and say that it's been a day or even an hour since my last binge. But for now, the important thing is that this shows me that I can do this. Shoot, I *have* done this. And just because I haven't done it in a while doesn't mean I can't again.

It's strange how a week can seem like a flash or the most agonizing seven days of one's life. I'd say this past week has been somewhere in the middle. I've got so much going on at work and in my personal life right now that I'm a tad overwhelmed. And when I get overwhelmed, I shut down. I procrastinate. I eat.

But not this week.

This week I stopped myself when I thought, "Just this meal. Tomorrow I'll be better." Thinking about coming here and telling you all--and telling myself--I'd made it a week kept me from doing that.

So yeah, it's just seven days. But maybe it's just the first of lots of days.

* My sincere apologies for anyone who can't get the Barenaked Ladies overly catchy li'l ditty out of his or her head.

The seduction of addiction

I want to say, first of all, that I planned this entry a while ago and amended it a bit. I decided to continue with it in hopes that you guys know me and have been with me a long time (most of you) and therefore know I would never, ever trivialize this subject or compare my own woes to those of anyone else. I never want to seem self-indulgent (but, well, this is my blog so it’s going to happen sometimes. Oftentimes, even.) or make my issues seem any harder than anyone’s. But we’re all on our own journeys, aren’t we?

For a lot of people, addiction is a dirty word. I know it has been for me. My therapist used to say “To be human is to be addicted.” I know I scoffed at that once or twice. But then I realized she was right. It’s just that not everyone’s addictions manifest themselves in obvious ways.

This week, we saw the death of a supremely talented actor. And I read a lot of criticism about him from anonymous—and not-so-anonymous—Internet commenters. He was selfish, because he chose drugs over his children. He was an idiot who couldn’t get his life under control. It’s his fault he is dead because he was a drug addict.

These hateful words hurt me as if they were about me. Partly because, in many ways, they are about me. 

Before any of you roll your eyes, I’m not trying to compare my food addiction to heroin addiction. My addiction isn’t quite as dramatically fatal (though it can definitely lead to early death). It doesn’t involve syringes. I’m not going to get arrested for it.

But the darkness. The loneliness. The helplessness. These are the feelings that I think come with any addiction. These are the feelings that have permeated me lately.

I need to own up to what I am, before it becomes all that I am. Yes, I am an addict. And yes, I’ve had a relapse. I’ve been in the middle of this relapse for a while now.

I’ve been choosing food over life. Over friends. Over my boyfriend. Over family. I’m eating in secret. Feeling helpless.

Perhaps this sounds overdramatic. You know what? I don’t really care. I’m angry. I’m scared. I’m lonely. I hate this feeling of food being the thing I’m living for. It hurts too much. 

The ironic thing is that I have been one of those not-so-anonymous judgers in the past. I have friends and family who have dealt with addiction. And I often said the words, “I can’t believe he/she would choose *insert addiction here* over me.” I’d get frustrated and angry.

But when I think about it in my own life, I see things differently. I don’t want to choose food over anything else. I want to choose my friends and family and boyfriend. I want to choose life.

So that’s what I try to do every day. For now, though, I think it’s important—critically so—to acknowledge where I am now—where I have been for a while. Just so I can move on. 

So yes, I have had a relapse. But I’m committed to choosing life over darkness. I probably will have to repeat that to myself every single day—and I won’t always succeed, but I will make it happen.

I choose to live.