End Week Twenty-Three

...at least, I think it's week twenty-three? I'm not actually sure, I've kind of lost track of things a little. Which is probably both good and bad, ha. Never mind, I am setting an endgame goal here and that's the important thing right now anyway.

So, I got up this morning with even more trepidation than I'd customarily have on Weigh Day, given the fact I've been off my game for so long with only a week back on to show for it. Because while I was on holiday? I was terrified of what was happening to me. And that concerned me a lot, too; I was constantly wandering off to examine my stomach or my thighs or my hips to see if they were expanding. Like, several times a day. I'd eat something, and then be scared I was about to swell up into a fatty again. Think Violet Beauregarde turning into a blueberry, or Cinderella's elegant coach turning back into a pumpkin. Though I intellectually understand weight gain doesn't happen that fast, I was still somehow terrified of waking up one morning to discover myself twenty kilograms heavier. Which goes a way towards explaining why I started getting obsessive about exercise; for the week I was there, I used to get up at six, have breakfast, do twenty minutes of Zumba then go and walk around the waterfront for an hour. I would then have at least one swim in either the ocean or the pool -- sometimes both -- and my father and I played tennis some nights. A couple nights I had two long walks. And during the day my mother and I generally went out wandering on touristy things, so....yeah. That was beginning to worry me somewhat, too.

I think this is all on my mind right now because of what I saw on the scale this morning. It was 64.5kg. I should be jumping for joy, considering I was hoping for 65kg at very best. But...in the way of my terrible brain, it just doesn't seem good enough. And this is what worries me about maintenance, as I think I've already aptly demonstrated that I still haven't the self-control I need. But then, wallowing around on the diet isn't going to fix that. The safe "stasis-space" is where I live too much of my life already, whether we're talking about my work, my living situation, or my non-existent lovelife. So...yeah. I want to finish, but I'm scared of it. I love these Catch-22s, don't you?

But I have to focus on the fact that it's now eight weeks until the end of April, and I currently weigh 64.5kg. That means I have to lose ten kilograms to get within spitting distance of 54kg, which is where I will order refeed. Ten days later, I should be done. Ten weeks and ten days. I can bloody do this. It does, however, involve being completely a hundred percent committed to the diet, so...yeah. And I am hoping that this time, when I get to the end and go off-plan, the fact that I will then know that it's The End means I won't go beserk and feel I have to eat everything I want before it's taken away from me again. Because no-one's going to be taking anything away. It will always be there. It just needs a whole lot of a respect, and a whole lot of self-control.

So, in the meantime, I am full of tea and omelette, and I shall now go and make that king cake. Lent's coming, as I've said, but I'm already there. It's not forever. But the change in my thinking will be.