Sunday, after I wrote that lengthy, motivating entry, I proceeded to cram my mouth full of garbage for the rest of the day. But wait, there’s hope. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday I was perfect! Then—who knows why? —today I bonked out and ate like moths through wool.
I want to analyze it. I need to analyze it. I must analyze it. I cannot continue to repeat that same ridiculous behavior. Here I am, dying to be thin. I think of it every waking hour. Yet whenever I become upset, I eat. As if one more roll around my middle will alleviate some of my misery.
I’m depressed for several reasons. I haven’t lost any weight for four days, yet I’ve been unusually good on my diet. I’ve been doing some minor remodeling on my kitchen, but it’s still a pit, and I can’t see an end to it. Although my children are terrific in most ways, right now they are being turkeys about keeping their bathrooms and bedrooms clean, and it’s driving me crazy.
Of course, I set the perfect example of a spotless bedroom. Ha! I have to kick stuff out of the way to get to my bed! Which brings me back to the vicious cycle of obesity. I’m fat, my energy level is low, it’s physically hard to move around, to climb stairs, to bend over. So my house is messy; the children learn from my pathetic example and add to the disorder. I get more and more depressed staying home all day in a messy house. So… I… eat! Okay, analysis over.
Tonight, I’m going to get my exerciser out of the closet, where it’s lived for four years. (That’s the stupid story of my life; my exerciser has been in my closet for four years. Think about that!) I’ll put it in my bedroom and enjoy TV while I exercise. That is step three of my diet plan: exercise, exercise, exercise. (Step one is diary, step two is weight-loss calendar with goals, step three is exercise.)
Tonight I exercise. Tomorrow I eat only meat, eggs, vegetables, grapefruit, oranges, and apples. Tonight, too! I must start dieting from this moment; if I wait till tomorrow, I’ll be fat forever.
That reminds me of a poem I once recited while lecturing to a group of women. The last lines read:
I’m starting my diet, tomorrow, that’s right…
So let’s have that last bite of pizza tonight!
“And exactly what were you lecturing on, Rosemary?” Why, weight loss, of course. At the time, I had just lost 65 pounds, weighed 150, and looked pretty fine. Today, at 246 pounds, I cringe with humiliation every time I see anyone who was present at one of my lectures. Needless to say, I haven’t been asked to speak on that particular topic for quite some time.
Wow! Boy-oh-boy-oh-boy! I was through writing for the day, then I viewed a most distressing report about overweight children on 20/20! I am compelled to record my feelings about it. This program discussed the problems, depressions, hurts, aches, and general misery of fat children. It showed fat farms—summer camps for fat children—which cost around $3,000 to attend! Some children were back for the fifth year in a row! Brother, what a pathetic society! But what really shook me was an interview with two of the mothers. The camera showed only their faces, but guess what? It was obvious that both mothers were grossly overweight.
Zap! Did I get the message: Fat moms produce fat children. Oh, no! No! I don’t want to do that to my beautiful, precious babies. If I start dieting immediately, only Jeremy will remember my being fat, and he will have a hard time without pictures. I’m going to do it—for me and for them. Oh please, please, dear God… help me to help them. I never want them to go through this hellish experience—never!