I'm losing some weight.
I'm losing some weight, not in an eating-healthy-staying-active way, but in a running-on-anxiety-and-adrenaline-not-eating-enough way. In a not-taking-great-care-of-myself way. I've lost enough weight that people who haven't seen me in a month or two notice it and comment on it. I've lost enough weight that the other week, the mother of an old friend of mine told me I was too thin and should be eating more.
Mind you, I'm not trying to lose weight. Having grossly enlarged kidneys creates a sort of unintended lap-band situation: my stomach is under constant pressure and I rarely feel hungry. Normal meals are out of the question -- I can't eat a bagel without getting heartburn and feeling uncomfortably full for six hours following. So my eating habits have been constrained to grazing throughout the day, eating small amounts at a time. This works well enough when I have the time and mental energy to be thoughtful about what I put in my mouth, but when I'm working 13 hour days without a break, planning six small meals throughout the day goes out the window.
And here's the part that hard to write about, hard to admit: I love it.
I love that all of my pants are so big that even wearing a belt barely makes them wearable. I love looking down and seeing my pre-baby waistline. I love that my collarbones are sticking out and that I feel thin enough to buy a new, teensy bikini to wear on the Mexico beaches in five-days-and-counting.
I love the old familiar light-headed feeling of running on fumes 70% of my day, the endorphin high that comes from knowing that I'm managing to conquer my body's needs. Reminiscent of surviving freshman year of college on Juicy Fruit gum, roasted soy beans, and diet Coke, I imagine that this endorphin rush is much like the high that marathoners experience, having pushed their bodies to their outer limits. It hurts so good. And I'm ashamed of the rush, knowing that my body needs all the healthy it can get right now.
February was National Eating Disorders Awareness Month and it seemed like getting over myself and posting about this was the right thing to do (even in mid-March). It's been (omigod, so many) years since I've been actively eating disordered, but like a recovering alcoholic inhaling vodka fumes on a friend's breath, I can so easily imagine slipping back into the previously-tortured relationship I had with my body and food.
Instead, I'm going to Cancun with my husband for five days. I will sleep, I will recharge, and I will eat as much guacamole as I can, all while wearing my new teesy bikini. When we get back, I have another month of pedal-to-the-metal at work, but I'm going to recommit to a healthy eating plan. I will not obsess about gaining back any of the weight I've lost. (Maybe.)
I'm going to try.