Weight Loss - Winning the War Against Cup Cake Terrorism

As an addictive personality in a world of accelerating accessible tasty pleasures, I was loosing the battle to stay within an acceptable weight range. It was a battle I knew I did not fight alone yet its power to isolate with its sense of out of control despair was extraordinary. Dietary failure, hereditary predisposition, lack luster motivation for exercise and almost daily sensory bombardment all added daily to a sense of painful powerlessness, which I have always felt so utterly incapable, of facing head on. I chose to numb myself with Sare Lee Cheese Cakes and lots of chocolate instead.

Like Pavlov's dogs I had been conditioned to salivate at the ring of the food bell, but not any food bell, no - like any dysfunction it is never sane, otherwise I would gobble down salad and fruit. I answer to the ring of the fat, sugar or salt bell, ring it and I would obediently answer its call.

Portrayals of tasty mouth watering delights, the tease of tantalizing aromas, advertised betrayals of human health, all triggers to set me off like a heat seeking missile honing in on the now anticipated target of imagined satisfaction and god help you, if you got in my way. Once hostage to Cup Cake Terrorism or in sight of those stand over twins Fat and Salt "I'll watch what I eat tomorrow" was my only survival strategy for dealing with the conflicting guilty pleasure and unacknowledged pain and fear they represented.

My particular deep seated pain could be summed up in one word ‘inadequate' I was not enough, I did not have enough, more than enough was for other people but not me, in some ways I knew I was OK . . . but! As I type the word ‘but' I can feel a sharp hot pain in my cheek. I hated the consequences of its implied meaning not only for me but anyone so I dropt it from my vocabulary in protest, I refused to give it the light of day unless it was to make a point - however became my vocabulary alternative.

Despite my best and none too inconsiderable efforts to manage all areas of my life and achieve the particular needs my temperament demanded (my own place, to live at a confident weight and have a piece off paper that said I could do something) and I eventuially got all those things and they helped, and yet - I was still left with my habit of fear, I still had that bloody ‘I'm Ok . . . but' lurking below the surface and I knew this because my relationship with food, still sucked.

I learnt to successfully live with my own alcoholism, hell I even gave up cigarettes so it wasn't like I didn't understand obsessive addictive behaviors or not know it couldn't be overcome or managed. I knew - but as sobriety taught me what I knew about not drinking didn't transfer to not smoking and what I know about not drinking and not smoking, doesn't transfer to food.

They are as I now understand reflections of different pain thresholds, each level having its own behavioral strategies for denial as I descend deeper into the private and highly sensitive depths of my own personal wounds. I know if I want to bring back old pain I just need to pick up a drink or a cigarette, if I want to expose and move beyond the yearning hungers of my sole that believes I am not enough, I do not have enough then . . then I needed to face my relationship with food.

I knew what I should eat, what chubby chick doesn't for goodness sake. I knew I should exercise, and sometimes I could do what I knew I should do and even feel better, until I stopped doing what I knew I should do because doing what I should, never, never, never satisfied the real need.

I was just feeding a deep black hole that could get uncomfortably filled up and make me feel sickenly sick, but not for long. A need that could pile on the fat that overloaded joints and organs and make them ache in protest, that made getting through the summer a fat rubbing, sweaty nightmare, made dressing a depressing exercise in disguise, that had me treating myself with a relentless bullying contempt I would not direct at anyone unless they were a complete narcissistic, compassionless arsehole and even then I would not hang around to bully, I would leave.

What makes us believe it is better to run with waving arms into the path of the Cup Cake Terrorist or fall at the feet of Fat and Salt and not question ourselves, not go beyond the pondering of 'why oh why' we do this. What is it that makes us believe we are not now big enough to handle a pain that probably came about when we were too small to do anything about it. What makes us not know we can be our own hero and face that ominous presence deep within that we unsuccessfully try and smother with food.