Plodding

Where did two years go? And if I read my journals, way back to when my firstborn greeted the world in 1984, I had the same concerns. Even my post from two years ago says the basic same things. The pain of this world, the flesh and the devil. Mostly the flesh and its insatiable need to be satiated. And it never is. Here, all these years later, wrestling with the same demons and no better off, rather, I'm worse off. Because years and more fudgy cake make for a larger mountain to traverse. With the ravages of time, my body has begun to quake and labor under the burden. I've lived so much, ate and drank (too much KoolAid and Diet Coke for sure), thrown caution to the wind, not listened when the Holy Spirit whispered in my ear. 

There can be so much condemnation in my own heart, knowing that I am not caring well for the temple of the Holy Spirit. It's an awful thing, waking up every morning to the lard that is sitting on my stomach. I don't care what anybody says, self esteem and all that, it's still lard and I don't like it. And people talking about loving yourself, etc. Well, I love myself too much. And I hurt myself, because I'm a brat and I want what I want, without consequences. There's far too many lies about this subject. We're brats. We don't have low self-esteem. We love our pacifiers and how dare you take them away?

Bright lines. Been hearing about that too. That's about being black-and-white about my eating. Treating myself like an addict. No sugar. No sweeteners. No flour (of ANY kind). And this is not a temporary diet or program. It needs to be for the rest of my life. No cheating, no passing go. Accepting it and embracing it. Lord have mercy. One week in and I'm scraping at the walls. I've lost 8 pounds but that demon that's chained in the cave would love to eat the house down.  It's not about volume, so much, as it is having all my choice sweets and carbs, without consequence.

But filling myself up with that stuff every day also leaves me with chest pain, pain running down my neck and left arm, and guilt every night and every morning. You would think that would be plenty of incentive, but that's just the nature of addiction. This week has left me extremely sharp because the sugars are clearing out of my brain. I have been able to say "no" to several different people and situations with power. I have been able to enunciate things that needed to be said. I have asked forgiveness for places in myself that I haven't visited in years. I feel hopeful, that maybe I can get something done. My house is neat and tidy, the laundry is caught up (not the ironing, but that's not my job. Just say no!). The rings on the counter have been wiped off. I can't remember when that's stayed that way for more than a day or two, but it's been great for over a week. Miraculous. I pray for the steady, consistent, boring habits that will carry me through what is difficult. I always chafe against those, but it's time to put on my big girl panties and plod. I've been doing worse than plodding anyway because of my self-induced physical encumbrances, so why not do it with a plan?

Once again throwing myself at the foot of the cross, face down and at His mercy. That is where we find grace. That is where we find the means to do what we ought, because where I am weak and completely unable, He is strong.

Where do I begin?

Nobody ever starts out their life wanting to be fat, do they? Maybe back during the Dark Ages, where being fat meant being the king... but in reality, how many people reallllly want to be king? Either way, as a child, I remember being horrified that I might grow up to be fat. My Mama was and is fat, though compared to me now she is almost svelte. It was awful to her and she didn't ever seem to know how to undo the fatness that had followed her all of her life. Although she said very little to me about it, I do remember her saying "don't ever get fat. It's much easier to keep from getting fat than it is to get it off once it's there." It always seemed to me that it was difficult for her when summer came, to wear a bathing suit and all that.... 

Somehow, I didn't get the memo. I didn't take it to heart that I had to hunker down to stop that fat bus from rolling on in. 'Cause it's true....once it's there it's really hard to get rid of. Sort-of like a body.

I'm thinking about all the Ann Rule books I've read (she writes, very factually, true crime stories) -- about how difficult it is to get rid of a dead body. Lots of people get caught because they don't know what to do with the body. And then in another thought, how if you get abducted, a good way to keep from getting hauled off is to go limp and act like a dead body. They can't carry you off if you don't help them. We've had to bury beloved dogs, 80-lb-ones, that have been put to sleep by the vet. It takes at least two people to carry a dog like that. Imagine a 200-300 pound person. Who needs a taser? Except there are those freaks who actually like dead bodies.  So what's that got to do with being fat, besides the fact that it might take five people to cart you off when that last globule of fat seals off your carotid artery? Sorry for all the graphic morbidity. Morbidity. Morbidly obese. Oh my word, that's what they say I am. Morbid. What an awful word. Thank God for God, because if morbid was my sentence, I mean, why would I ever get up?

Maybe I need to think about that carotid artery. About the embarrassment of five people trying to get me on a gurney. But embarrassment hasn't seemed to motivate me so far. I gleefully fling myself into the surf every summer with all the other whales then fry on the hot sand. Every chance I get, I get out on the dance floor and re-injure my poor feet, loving every minute. I'm sure I embarrass my kids and my relatives with the fact that I really don't care who sees me dancing. I don't care how cute or how ugly you are, that is the way to live. Why wait until everything's all lined up and perfect? Get over yourself and go ahead and live.

Meanwhile.

That artery is slowly (or not so slowly) getting filled up and those feet are getting heel spurs. You can only get so many cortisone shots and second chances. Then you simply can't get out there. You can't move. You can't breathe, wondering why you didn't change something.

We've only got so many days on this planet that God ordains for us. 

There are many brownies, cakes, pies, biscuits, and chocolate delights to be had. Much food and drink. New adventures in Foodland.

But maybe I've reached my quota. Who am I kidding. I've already had a double-dip quota and everything's spilling over into the river. 

Here's to admitting the truth. I have lost and gained a bunch of weight in my adult years. I lost 60 pounds a couple years ago, got halfway to my goal, plateaued for a year, then gained it back, a pound a week. Isn't that precious?

There is a lot more I could say right now. But the elephant in the room is, "Whatcha gonna do about it?" Everybody is so nice and doesn't say anything to me. I am an addict and need rehab. The Holy Spirit lives in my heart and I must grieve Him with my choices. Little ones, easy ones, quiet ones, little foxes. Everybody else is eating it, why can't I?

Yes, I live and I tend to live large, no matter what size I am. But I am not taking good care of this tent that He gave me. This tent that is fearfully and wonderfully made. It is a slap in His face, in my dear husband's face, even in my mother's face -- who carried me for nine months then raised me right....it's like a spoiled child who pitches a fit because he wants a candy bar in the store. There's no one to force me not to take the candy bar, because I'm grown and can do what I want. Yes, I (and you) can usually do what we really want to do. Sweets and carbs are so compelling for me. Morbidly(!) addictive. It's even, and particularly, a slap in my own face. They tell me to love myself. Well, yup, I love myself so much I'm killing myself. It's a weird thing, sin...

I am not walking in victory. It hurts many things and many people, especially me. Especially my feet. 

I am loved. I am filled and surrounded by love. This is not about love. It is about a brat who needs to get out the switch and tan her own hide. Because she's not a baby, she's not a wayward adolescent. She's an adult. So grow up and act like one.

As the team in Remember the Titans chants, so do I today: "We need a victory!" Lord, I need victory. Not just one, but a permanent, serene change of heart.