Late nights = old pictures.


Late nights = old pictures. The sheer discomfort of all that weight, the back pain that Lortabs that just broke the edge off of but never suppressed, the pain in my feet and ankles, the wild blood sugar and cavalier attitude towards blood pressure. Crazy edema in my legs I used to think was funny. I could press my thumbs into my shins and it would take minutes for the indentations to fade. I was just waiting for a stroke to take me out and leave people the insurance money. The constant eating and eating and eating and not being more physically active than I needed to be. Clothes not fitting, boy I was hard on clothes. I would tear the crotch out of pants in months sometimes weeks. I was probably moody as frak. Yet people loved me. Except for myself I guess. An eating machine, my father used to say. You don’t have to worry about Steven getting fed, he is going to take care of his stomach no matter what. There were times that I wished my addiction and that is how I thought of it was something else, alcohol or sex, though what a problem a sex addiction would have been. I was always a heavy kid but I didn’t balloon up until after high school. Three sixty plus, I was probably hammering on the door to four hundred. I went from 360 to 195 in about 7 months when I was unemployed due to the company I was working for closing up shop and moving south. An army recruiter came by the house and I decided that that is what I was going to do to escape, escape the ville, my life, and my self. I joined WW and made it my job to lose that weight. Impressed the hell out of the recruiter. Easy off, though, easy back on. Three years later I was back above 300. I did that one more time. Oh back in 2009 or ’10. I had a wicked infection in my neck that I just couldn’t shake and just spread quite rapidly. It did that because my blood sugars were running free and wild above 360. Lucky I wasn’t dead. So after they operated on my neck I did the Atkins thing and dropped down to 260 270. I slowly then quickly went back to eating like a fiend again and I just said frak it. I wasn’t going to do this anymore, I would eat until my head exploded and it would hopefully happen quick. But I tried a couple more times when ever I started feeling like dieing wasn’t coming quick enough and all I would be is just sick and miserable. Now? Now, I want to live a non-feeling-like crap life, not have a stroke and be an invalid, not be like some of the old people coming down the cafeteria line, not have toes and feet and limbs cut off, not have infections that my body can’t fight off. I want to run. I want to not be possessed by a demonic insatiable hunger. I don’t want to eat because I am sad or lonely or angry or happy or whatever emotional wind blows through my mental landscape. Is it different this time? I pray to every god that ever was or will be that it is different this time. So I track my food, look like a fool taking pictures of it, post stupid crap on facebook about it to try and keep myself accountable. If there is one thing that the management thing has impressed upon me it is if you can’t measure it you can’t manage it and people do what you inspect not expect. I work on the emotional side of things and watch. I watch my state, I watch for triggers like a point man in the jungle watching for booby traps and guerrillas in well in the mist.{lol}. I take a cheat day, which is really a popcorn day now, and that I think is something that helps me from turning into a month long or a year long binge. Track, weigh and measure, its all about the numbers with food, and I am grateful for the fitbit because that is another number to track. It’s a numbers game then a feeling game, how do you feel? What do the numbers say? Did I get my exercise in? Did I keep my carbs where they need to be, my daily caloric intake in line? Then I feel frakking fine, buddy. I do feel fine, hell I feel great. A1c is great, cholesterol is great. Bp needs a bit of improvement. The only problem is that this should have been an early night and I shouldn’t have had to write all this junk. Sleep would have been better.

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