Hey, Hurley, have we traded places today? The cursed numbers are back and threatening. They keep tick tick ticking up. That should be encouraging, right? We're going in the right direction, up, up, up as we build back a hollowed shell. Strength upon strength. But, my mind says, "stop! that's quite enough now. are you kidding, me?! What are you doing?"
The panic has been manageable so far, but today....today, my throat is tightening. I almost cried this morning when my trainer said, post-workout, I still needed more fuel. Red alert. All the panic buttons are sounding. But he's right. My body was shaking from depletion, which I could barely believe possible.
I'm eating #allthefood. And #alltheproteinshakes. And #alltheenjoycupcakes.
At least, it feels that way to a gal whose thinking has always been counter to this.
For the record, I didn't cry. C'mon, I'm tougher than that. Well, I pretend to be anyway.
The mental/spiritual exercise is more exhausting than the rigorous training I'm putting my body through.
My calves cry, "eat more." My energy level says, "even more, girl." My trainer says, "now, some more." Habits are so hard to shed as I try to see the nutritional information as a positive; a force for good. Does it have enough of what I need?...instead of desperately calculating the day's calories-numbers as the enemy.
Too much, too much, always too much.
Now, struggling to put in enough, to keep up with demand. My mind is having a hard time keeping up. But, that's a big part of taking up this physical challenge. A push to break destructive habits. Laying the anxiety down at Christ's feet; asking Him, "Take this please. Run with me though this." The putting on of nourishment to the putting off of restriction, spiritually and physically. The numbers are not my master. Not my curse.
God, keep my focus on your grace and kill their hold on me.
Help me run this race well....
oh, and that marathon, too.
I did not want to leave the house today.
I do not want to go to the beach tomorrow.
I live and die by numbers.
Numbers on my scale. The number on my jeans. The number of meals I ate today. The number of miles I didn't run to burn off those meals. Number of Ding-Dongs I now want to eat because I'm depressed and give up.
What I Wore Wednesday? Torture.
Bored yet? Me too.
Instead of readying my heart and mind for worship on Sunday, I want to hide under the heap of clothes I've changed in and out of for an hour. I would keep from fellowship with the body because I want mine to disappear. I'd love to hide when I'm feeling hideous. But I would also be hiding from encouragement, love, worship, laughter, and correction. Here's the kicker. Most already know just how hideous I am anyway. It's oozing from my heart. Try and starve that out. Good luck!
In fighting obsessive thoughts, there are certain phrases that need to be cut out of everyday speech. Habits so engrained, they've become normal in so many conversations with other sisters. Replying to any compliment (okay, every "Hi, how are you?") with, "Ugh, I need to lose poundage " or "Are you kidding, look at my (fill in the blank with list of perceived flaws)." Ever notice how much we do this?
On and on and on. Nauseating.
Spirit killing. Temple killing. I can attest to that.
As our great God is stripping away all that hinders me, his armor is what I should be clothed in. It fits every time. Someday, I pray, that will be all others see and all I focus on. How beautiful. How freeing.
So, I'm trying to stop these words from taking away the refreshment that should be offered instead. Replacing them with words of grace. Let's feed each other the good stuff. Be energized for the better things God wants us to do.
Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things
This book is helpful even when I don't want to be helped.
The Road to Ensenada by Lyle Lovett because Lyle is the man!