Two steps forward, one step back

Is still one effing step forward! 

Dear audience, who randomly land on my page but leave no comments, I am sorry I have neglected you for the last few weeks for the sake of a single-mother in grad school ambivalence stress-fest.  This fall was like a repeat of the very first term I began undergrad, alone with 2 kiddies and pre-reqs that were 15 years old.  I felt scared, I raged at the man in my life, I lay on the floor crying in frustration instead of tackling homework.  I even ended up with the exact same transcript, grade for grade.  History in my life appears to repeat itself with alarming accuracy. 

And to you Lady in White, I am sorry for neglecting you for the last almost 3 years, and particularly sorry for so heavily abusing you for the last 3 months.  I ate my feelings every chance I got, including today.  I have ogled the fitblogs of twenty-somethings, envying the scope of their as yet unattained futures.  I would like to suck it out of them.  But instead, I shall wish them well, and attend a command repeat performance of my own weight-loss.  That's right -- in 2004 I lost 40 pounds of baby/ I hate my husband weight and managed to keep it off through fear and fitness until fall 2009.  That's when I let depression over my current relationship (also known as russian madness) and an obsessive need to prove myself through school override my well-being.  Instead, I worshipped the bread-cheese-chocolate holiest of holy trinities. 

What is it about 7.5 seconds of a taste explosion that approximates love and happiness so bemusingly? It's a true mystery, as apparently I am willing to withstand disfiguring self-hatred and stomach upset for hours and days afterwards.  And to go on to partake of another 7.5 seconds of mediocre mouth-love.  Emotional masturbation with food sucks! 

It doesn't help.  I feel weaker and more unworthy of love than ever!  

So here's what's going to happen:  I have a kind of break from school from now until January 4th (a total of 23 semi-vacation days).  In that time I will 1) sleep 2) write 3) seek transformative solitude 4) work-out my ass off (literally).  Seriously, daily weights (only for interest sake) and measures, and a weekly size 8 jeans sit-down test.  Though weight-gain is a symptom and not the disease and weight-loss is a benefit and not a cure, the next couple of weeks will involve symptomatic treatment only -- because it's what I can manage right now.  After that, I will find a cure. 

Do or do not -- there is no try.