Free will

My therapist and I had a nice chat on Tuesday. Or, I should say, I attempted to chat through all the blubbering I was doing.

I've never cried in front of my therapist before, or at least not like this. Honestly, the floodgates were ready to burst open before I even got my butt on the couch. It had been a while since I'd seen her, so I had some stuff to catch up on. Mainly, I was there to discuss my recent weight gain, and my re-addiction to all things sugar, salt, and fat.

She wanted to know how it began. I explained (between sobs) that it was a convergence of factors. I was stressed from a good friend at work being fired. I got sick with a nasty cold. Pressures of marathon training were suffocating me. Lastly, I just felt like eating a bunch of junk.

Then, she asked me a rather obvious question, yet it was something I'd not considered: "Did you not think this was going to happen eventually?"

Well, no, I really didn't. When I was slimming down, I didn't think of it as a temporary effort. It was a lifelong commitment, like a marriage. I was married to this healthy lifestyle. We were happy. We held hands and ran along the beach; we picnicked in the green grass and fed each other strawberries. Then I cheated. I had an affair with McDonald's. It felt that shameful and sinister, like I was being unfaithful to my true love. In fact, I remember one of the low points a few weeks ago, when I told Angie I was going to fill up my gas tank, but on the way I cruised the drive-thru. Yup, I lied to her, got a crappy cheeseburger, and scarfed it down before I got home. I couldn't contain my remorse, and wound up confessing a few minutes after walking in the door. I was worried Angie would smell the beef on my breath, like the telltale lipstick on the collar. Guilty.

When I considered the fact that most people who lose a lot of weight eventually have a relapse, I felt a little better. Also, I like the term "relapse," because it puts me in the same category as a recovering alcoholic or drug addict. To me, my addiction to food is just as powerful as that of booze to a wino, or heroin to a junkie.

In the past, my motto for getting back on the wagon has always been, "just have one good day." I shared that with my therapist, and she thought it was great. But, she added that sometimes even a day can be too much to handle. If I'm having a hard time, I need to try taking it one hour at a time; even one minute at a time, if necessary. The key is to remember that it's always a choice. I am in control, even when I'm out of control. Free will.

I went into her office a hopeless, depressed wreck. I emerged with a purse full of tear-soaked Kleenex and a better outlook. Gaining ten pounds is not the end of the world, nor is it a white flag of surrender. I will beat this.