Three pounds. Last Monday revealed, after completing two weeks of intermittent fasting, that I lost three pounds. Thank God. It was a paltry relief, though, if that makes sense. I’m not gonna say I expected that simply narrowing the window of time I spend eating each day was going to quickly morph me into a perfect version of myself but…it would’ve been oh-so-nice.
Last week I lost three pounds. This morning, none, bringing the total of my three-week weight loss to three pounds. Not exactly stellar. Also, in the same amount of time my husband has lost like ten pounds. Yay him. Now he weighs himself every day. That seems excessive to me. My moods are already questionable when I first wake up, and it’s entirely plausible that a pound or two fluctuations could take a somewhat grouchy mood that burns off like the morning fog and make it stick around all darn day. But there’s no denying he’s experiencing more success than I am.
Intermittent fasting is certainly doing other things besides not helping me lose much weight. Stirring up flares, for one. The flare I had the first week was epic. I got a big boil on my right cheek. I was a woman on the verge for like four days, which is a really long time to be ready to snap. Suddenly my tolerance for subjugating my own needs for the sake of another’s convenience was nonexistent. I was on a mission to reclaim my lost life. Fueled by that special kind of amped-up anger only my worst flares can trigger, I decided no one was going to stop me and turned into a psycho bitch.
Week two was a huge improvement. I didn’t have a flare. I drank a bunch of water so wasn’t really hungry. I realized not eating for sixteen hours at a time wasn’t going to send me into starvation mode. No, it was actually helping me feel much better. I seemed to have found a path of accountability and control. I went to the gym once and did yoga once.
Last week, was not a good week. Another flare. The kind where I don’t want to brush my teeth or take my vitamins, like the fundamental need to take care of myself didn’t matter. I didn’t exercise once, haven’t done that since February. I even skipped my weekly writer’s group. Now I live for my writer’s group. It’s the one thing I do in the outside world that makes me feel like I’m moving my life forward. But it’s also the kind of thing I can’t attend in an overly sensitive and irrational state. Having people rip apart my work is hard on a good day, but necessary for the betterment of my craft. But if I know I’m already sensitive and irrational, well, can somebody say powder keg?
Now every time I start exercising after an extended break, I go into terrible flare cycles for a while. I assume flexing my muscles releases the toxicity that’s stored inside of me. Eventually, if I stick with it, my flares go away and I wind up far better off than I was to start. Honestly, it’s the only way I’ve been able to get out of pain. An absurd reality, I know, but one that I own all the same. Maybe that’s what’s happening with intermittent fasting? I’ve heard there’s a whole cellular die-off and detox benefit to this lifestyle. That could be contributing to my uptick in flares.
Who knows what this week will bring. I’m certainly changing my weigh-in day. Deciding to step on the scale after my weekends of binging was a stupid idea. I feel too good overall to stop, even though I’m not seeing pound-or-inches results. I still need to exercise more, I still need to drink less, and no magic wand has been waved over my life. But ultimately I’m more in control of myself and moving in the right direction.
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