Spending time watching my daughter spiral downwards in
her anxiety and depression made me realize that no matter what road we traveled
down, the one lined with prescriptions and talk therapy and group therapy and
therapy for all the therapies, she ultimately needed to do the work. I could
not do it for her. No one was going to help her change but her.
How many therapists does it take to change a
lightbulb?
One, but the lightbulb really has to want to change.
With a good long look in my mirror, I also swallowed
my own pill of realization: I needed to change as well. I paid more for life
insurance than my husband, although he was 7 years my senior. I was worried
about the four flights to my classroom when there was a fire drill, bringing up
the rear if only to try and catch my breath. I baked cookies for Christmas,
under the guise of sharing with co-workers and friends, but I knew who inhaled
most of them. I was slowly killing myself.
The lightbulb went on. And it really wanted to change.
So, I decided the best way to start was small. Since
every journey begins with a single step, it was time. Sort of. I went into
planning mode. Using WW as my guide, I simply decided to fix the food.
Simple? Hilarious. If it was that simple, we’d all be
fucking thin.
Psychologically, food had become so twisted within my
psyche, that it was no longer simply about eating when I was hungry. If I could
master that concept, I would not even be in this predicament. Food has wound
its way as my comfort for loneliness, boredom and celebration; intimately
connecting to family and holidays, marking celebrations and milestones; intertwined
itself with shame and rage and pain within my neurons, jumping across synapses,
hiding within the folds.
Even worse, I was a food snob. When I read articles pandering to the masses in search of the secret to losing weight, I failed to connect. I doubted those authors ever had a true weight problem, when making suggestions such as “Cut out soda,” or “Don’t eat fast food.” Really?? Great, thanks. Never thought of that. Maybe some people had no idea about this, but I find that hard to believe. Most fat people know more about nutrition than nutritionists.
Those suggestions didn’t help me one bit. I loved to
cook, bake, saute, steam, stir- fry, and simmer. I have eaten at a five star
Michelin rated restaurant. I have consumed body parts that would make most
people shudder at the thought (sweetbreads, anyone?) simply for the experience.
I supported my local CSA (Community Supported Agriculture), frequented Farmer’s
Markets, and tried to eat organic whenever my pocketbook allowed.
Big Macs were not my problem.
So, I decided my food would have to taste good, and I would plan what I was eating every damn day.
I pored through Pinterest, finding recipes that fit
into this new eating plan. I decided if I was important to myself, I needed to
make time just for me. I blocked out a space of time every Sunday morning to
meal prep. That meant waking up at 6 am.
I work as a teacher, so I do wake up relatively early
during the week (about 5:30 am.) However, the weekends were mine, to sleep in a
bit. This old non-plan wasn’t serving me at all, so my first order of business
was to be a little uncomfortable, and 6 am on a Sunday morning was just that.
Uncomfortable.
I used a grocery delivery service, which believe it or
not, saved me money. No more picking things off a shelf and throwing them into
my cart. I checked what was on sale, went to Pinterest or the WW app, planned
some recipes around the sale items and placed them in my virtual cart. I made
sure my order was arriving between 6 am and 8 am on Sunday, the earliest time
it could be delivered, making sure I was awake.
I treated my meal prep like Henry Ford, assembly
lining my way to 5 breakfasts and 5 lunches I would take to work, and
pre-assembly of a few dinners. All food was written down, and any thinking was
removed. This would become rote memory. Off to work, grab eggs and salad and
pre-portioned snack. No thinking involved.
There were Friday nights, at the end of a long week,
where I was too exhausted to even boil water for mac & cheese. Now, I had a
plan to guide me, even if that plan consisted of leftovers on the same
exhausted Friday evenings. Plans work.
This meal plan was key to my success in the beginning.
Every week, I made a game plan, mapped it out, and executed it. It turned into
my newest obsession. Still obsessing over food, this time in a healthier way.
Food still inhabited most of my waking thoughts. What did I eat today? What am
I eating tomorrow? What am I eating next week?
But it was still a start, and you must start
somewhere.
Exercise was not part of this equation. Since I was
starting on an odd day in February of 2018, I gave myself until school ended to
think about exercise. I know that my summers are a luxury which many people do
not have, and I would be determined to use that gift of time wisely. For now,
planning to eat my hard boiled eggs five times that week was the best I could
do. I was still swimming within my daughter’s illness, treading water as we
navigated her foray into the world of psychological mood stabilizers and
anti-depressants. My hair was still falling out.
So, small steps it was. Small steps. They will still get
you where you are going.
It just may take a bit longer, and that’s ok.
Productive Midlife Crisis 