I have been silent for about a month.  And you know what that means…. Nothing good anyway. It started well.  I diligently counted my calories (well, not just counted them, but limited them as planned!).  And, in the first week after my last post, I stuck to the 1250 calories on only about 3 days.  I kept under 1500 on another couple of days and then I had a day or two when I didn’t count.  Caramello Easter Eggs anyone?  But, despite that, I actually lost 3kgs that week.  I suspect it had something to do with no carbohydrates at night on a few occasions (as a carbs-freak I HATE that cutting out carbs works for me!).  I also obviously limited my alcohol intake.

The next week I allowed myself a few wines, but only on those nights that I wasn’t eating carbs.  And I continued to do okay.  Until… (and there’s always an ‘until’) I had two days off work for some day surgery.  Hating to deprive myself (as I do) and pandering to my whims (also, as I do) of course I decided I was allowed to eat crap for the two days.  Which were followed by the weekend – which is when I usually go awry anyway.  I got on the scales the next week to discover I had gained 2 of the 3 kgs I had lost. Shit shit shit!

I was all over the place in week 3.  Mostly ‘good’, but the scales didn’t budge.  I then decided to go to my hometown for the weekend and visit my parents.  I only decided on the Friday and was fortunate to be able to get business class train tix both ways (trains can be fairly feral otherwise!).  Because I was going to offer my mum some respite (my dad isn’t well and she was sounding harried) I only warned them on the afternoon of my travel.  Of course (being a devoted mother) she made a HUGE cheesecake in honour of my visit and planned my favourite meals.  And of course (being a dutiful daughter) I ate the whole bloody cheesecake and huge helpings of dinner every night.

This is not me. But it could be.

I haven’t been on the scales since.  But… I feel yucky.  I feel fat and revolting.  I feel short of breath and unfit.  My walking buddies have been tied up and I haven’t got the motivation to go myself.  My new job has meant it has been hard for me to get to pilates. I am still thinking that lap banding may offer a glimmer of hope.  But I haven’t called to make the appointment as yet.  I suspect I keep thinking that something will happen and I will suddenly struck with motivation.  After a few drinks on Friday night I was lolling in the bath and wondered about returning to the fat camp I attended a couple of years ago (and lost 14kgs in a month).  In my blissful state (when all is well and good in the world), I decided that I could go for 3 months this time.  That way I would lose a stack of weight and – unlike last time when I still had a long way to go – would be sufficiently motivated to continue with it when I got home.  Then (the next morning) I reminded myself, that I DID continue with it when I got home last time.  I lost another 5kgs (almost 20kgs less than my starting weight).  But then I got an injury (which hasn’t improved) and stopped.  Everything.  One little hiccup and I throw in the towel.  It’s so typical of me.  All or nothing.

I’m starting to count calories tomorrow.  Again.  Because I need to feel like I am doing something to address this.  And, I need to make the appointment with the lap banding centre – even though I still hate the idea.  I can’t keep putting it off in the same way I procrastinate over everything; hoping things will change.  I am very conscious this is a habit of mine.  Thinking that things are ‘done’ to me; that I have no control.  I’ve written before here about how I pray to a God (that I don’t necessarily believe in), saying ‘Please let me lose weight’. Or, ‘Please let me get that job.’  Like I have no say in the matter.  When really, it’s all up to me.