Yesterday, I met with my doctor for a follow-up in the management of my diabetes (Type 2). She said I was doing great. My blood sugar has stayed in the 130-140 range with a daily insulin (Lantus, for those in the know) injection of 29 units. We talked about exercise and how I need to do it. We talked about diet. I told her I had been considering trying to go wheatless and she wholeheartedly approved. I left the visit feeling pretty positive about my progress.
Last night, I consumed the following: 1 entire package (3 servings) of beef jerky, half a package of cookies (about 12), a whole Jack’s pizza (10″), a box of garlic knots (6), a 2-pack of Pop-Tarts, and 2 pints of Diet (ah, irony) Coke. I slept poorly and woke feeling nauseous. My stomach still hurts from all that.
I know myself well enough that last night’s binge was a direct response to my doctor’s visit and my upcoming experiment with a wheatless diet. I told myself as I was buying all that that it was a “treat” before giving up wheat. Really, though, it was self-sabotage.
Self-sabotage is something I do a lot. I’m fairly certain there are underlying deep psychological reasons, such as the belief that I don’t truly deserve happiness or “success”. These beliefs certainly come to play in other areas of my life, such as my tendency to crush on unattainable women and my choice of self-centered, dominant mates.
But I also believe that my problem with food has a lot to do with habit and complacency. Until my metabolism caught up with me around age 24 (21 years ago!!!??? *cries*), I was able to eat anything I wanted without having any real effect on my weight. Even after I started to gain, I was able to “pull off” carrying a lot more weight than the average person, due to my being 6’5″. But now, and for the last 4-5 years, there is really no “pulling it off.” My stomach enters the room about 5 minutes before I do.
In all seriousness, I have trouble sitting and lying down comfortably. It takes a great effort to get up from a prone position. I pant when walking up a short hill or flight of stairs. I have the “diabeetus”. And, frankly, my sex drive has gone south (which is good, because my plumbing doesn’t work right any more, anyway).
Is it possible to be addicted to feeling miserable? I think it is. I think I am. It’s twisted, but I am most comfortable when I am sad, angry, depressed, or put upon. It needs to change, friends. It needs to change.