The problem with food.

As an adult, I have spent my entire life tipping the scales at over one hundred kilograms. These have never been muscular, lean kilograms, and for a very long time in my life, I have forever been full of angry thoughts about my body, and my inability to manage mass.

I am writing this post on a day when the summer sun os dutifully scorching the concrete pavement outside the gym. Today, unlike the last seven days, I'm inside that gym, right this moment sitting on a stationary cycle, following a brief 15 minute 2 km trek on a treadmill.

I know what I need to do to reduce my mass. I know how to use a gym. I'm slowly learning how remain (somewhat) injury free.

I know what to cook. I know what to eat. I know how much to eat. I know that water is the best possible fluid to ingest. I don't have enough of it.

Identity plays a enormous part in this candid rambling. I'll be thirty two this year. My life story is pretty uninteresting, but context is important.

Throughout high school, I was the model bookworm, wriggling through tales of adventure, wonder and science. I had academic understandings of all the things. Maths. Language. Science (except chemistry).

I loved computers and video games. I enjoyed all overwhelming (to others) academic tasks.

This was due to the fact that I was incessantly tortured, abused and targeted as a "soft" target due to my inability to cope with having a plate full of food in front of me.

I will eat whatever is placed in front of me, in any circumstances. Sometimes I'll even eat the food if I don't like it. I struggle with portion size, and a fear of missing out if I do not consume the entirety of whatever is placed before me.

Then, I went to university. I was 18. Then 19. I was fatigued constantly, suffering from persistent and ongoing diarrhea. It was horrible. It was bloody. It meant lethargy, shame, and a social calendar bookended by whatever toilet I could access.

I was hospitalized for weeks, poked, prodded, and treated. I healed. I went back to university having spent the semester break in hospital.

I went from how ever many kilograms I weighed at the time to 68. Then, fast forward a few years, I was at 130kg. I seem to have leveled out and plateaued at approximately 110 kilograms. Since then, I have ever so briefly flirted with 99 kilograms, but never once have I arrived at that station.

Today.

Today I ate an entire packet of the Easter delicacy, hot cross buns, for breakfast. Last night, for dessert, I also ate these things. They're fantastic. They're horrible. They get treated like everything else edible.

They get eaten.

Gluttony is the only way to look at the way I eat.

I will and continue to eat nutrition, salads, vegetables, lean meats. Its the excess. The snacks. The "desert" the cheat meals, that see me lapse into a cycle of "well just one more", which ends up seeing my metabolic state, diet, energy, and mental "can be fuckedness" swing like the cycle of a pendulum, always driving back to that central point.

Twenty minutes have passed on this stationary cycle. 8.8 kilometers and 150 calories have been burnt, and that probably is not even one of the twelve hot cross buns that I've consumed in the last forty eight hours.

Weight loss is a road where I need to stop taking each a d every exit labeled "cheat meal".

The good thing about this moment is that I am drenched in sweat, and hoping that this self torture can continue to lead me to a path of decreased mass, greater fuel economy, and a consistent, healthy outcome, where perhaps I might retain some mass in the 80s, or 90s.

Posted using Partiko Android