Sometimes I don't realize how eating affects my mood. At least, not until it happens. I ate well all last week, got down under 170 for the first time in two years, felt awesome. Felt like this was a battle I could win, WAS winning. Then I went to my parents' house overnight. Stopped tracking. Stopped fighting. Ate like a madwoman. We went to my favorite restaurant. I didn't have any sides or salad with my bacon and cheddar covered baked haddock, so I could save room for dessert - peanut butter mousse pie with an oreo cookie crust. It was heaven. I shared as little as possible with my husband. Scarfed almost the whole piece. Weighed myself this morning - up almost two pounds from Saturday morning. Pissed. Disgruntled. Crushed with twin weights of dissapointment and irritation at myself. Was the pie worth it? No. Did I learn my lesson? In all honesty, probably not.
I'm back on the wagon again, and I am determined to be back under 170 soon. But I'm feel like a fox who's shewed off her own foot to escape from a trap only to realize that now I can't walk. Futility. Anger. Disgust. That's what I'm feeling this morning. I sabotaged myself. No one to blame but me.