Analyze This

So I finally found a therapist who deals with eating issues.  I had my second session last night, and I think this might actually be a good fit.  She battled binging and purging issues herself, and says she's been healthy for 30 years. 

I wasn't sure how this would go down.  Would I be lying on a couch?  Would she ask me about my mother?  I spent most of the first session perched on the edge of her sofa, completely on edge, my purse clutched on my lap.  I finally started to unclench about 50 minutes into our hour session.  During our first meeting, we talked about a lot - my history with weight, my family, my husband, my eating habits, my job, a lot.  We didn't get into any big earth-shattering revelations, but it was nice to have someone who could really listen without judging.  I left with an assignment - to bring in a written log of everything I had eaten for three days. 

I'm no stranger to the food diary.  Anyone who's been on Weight Watchers knows - "you bite it, you write it".  Well, here's my mini-confession for the week.  I haven't been going to Weight Watchers since I started this exercise plan about a month ago.  With the hour at the gym every day, I haven't found another meeting time that works, and I've been bad about tracking.  I decided to try a food tracker on www.sparkpeople.com - it's actually a pretty decent site, maybe a little too much going on, but it's free, and the nutrition tracker is helpful. 

My other mini-confession?  Even on Weight Watchers, I know I sometimes fudged on my eating.  Instead of facing up to a place where I binged on calories, I would think, "Oh, I just won't write it down, and we'll call that my bonus points for the week."  If I did it again?  Covertly stuffed a donut down my gullet with my office door closed?  "Well, surely I didn't use alllll of those points last time.  Problem solved!"  I never really faced the ugliness of a 20 oz. Culvers Concrete Mixer with vanilla custard, hot fudge and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. 

This time I was very careful to write down everything.  I wanted to make sure my therapist saw every nasty detail.  The reality?  Is that there aren't many nasty details.  My eating is overall really quite healthy and balanced.  Until I get stressed.   Namely stressed at work.  Then I stuff my face with anything I can get my hands on, including candy from the candy dish, vending machine delights, and 20 oz. ice cream treats.  (By the way, that Concrete Mixer?  Almost 1000 calories.)  I am truly an emotional eater.

My bigger revelation came yesterday.  She asked me about what age I first realized I was overweight, or felt like I was fat.  I thought back in time, and realized that I always expected to be fat as a little kid.  I was pretty average-sized, but my family was always overweight.  I remember visiting a shoe store as a 7-year-old with my mom.  The saleslady was tall, and overweight.  Not obese, just a little on the large size.  She looked like she was still quite active, and had very thick legs.  After we were done in the store, and walking around the mall, I said to my mother, "I hope I look like her when I grow up".  Mom drug me back to the store to tell the lady, thinking I had paid her such a nice compliment.  The reality was, in my 7-year-old head, I was thinking it was my fate to be fat.  When I told my mother I wanted to look like the saleslady, the sentence should have ended with, "...instead of looking like the rest of our family."  Thank God I had the tact not to say it. 

That was many years ago.  After telling the story to my therapist, she responded with, "Do you think, deep down, that you still believe it's your fate to look like your mother?"  I couldn't help myself.  My emotions betrayed me, and the tears started flowing.  I nodded silently.  Could I really be sabotaging my own weight loss efforts with a deep-seeded belief that I am destined to be fat? 

Clearly there's a lot more to discuss and think about.  My assignment this week is to do a dominant/non-dominant hand journal entry.  I'm supposed to wait until I'm very stressed/emotional about something, and then start writing with my dominant hand.  Let it all out, don't hold back.  Then I'm supposed to switch to my non-dominant hand and picture 7-year-old me, thinking I'm destined to wear bathing suits with skirts for the rest of my life, and ask that girl, "What do you need from me?"  Apparently, the non-intellectual half of my brain will come up with something interesting. 

We'll see.