I rocked this weekend. It is uncomfortable to admit, but although I ate rather unhealthy for the last four days, I was at some sort of peace with it. Usually, I spend a lot of time before, during, and after going out to eat thinking about how much of it I can actually eat instead of relying on hunger cues, and calculating what I am going to do fix the mistake of eating unhealthy. I spent very little time doing these things on vacation. I only ran once and didn’t panic over it. Ok, maybe a little bit but nothing extreme.
Great, you were successful at being lazy. Go ahead and step on the scale and see how that worked out for you.
I didn’t step on the scale. I’m trying really hard not to. I haven’t in about 2 weeks.
However, (of course) I spent the greater portion of my 3-hour drive home progressively becoming anxious about it and solving it with grandiose starvation plans. It doesn’t help that my refrigerator consists of condiments, spinach, 1 pickle spear, 3 eggs, 1/2 carton of almond milk, and 3 oranges. There is a bunch of crap in the pantry that I will never eat. The only reason it’s there at this point is to salvage the appearance of food in the house to visitors.
I am so emotional and it feels weak. I don’t feel like I have the right to be sad or angry or irritated or depressed or anxious over not having him here, because everyone has to go through this, and the only emotion I am allowed to have is confidence. I should be lucky to have such a great relationship. I am grateful…
But communication with my husband has been sketchy at best and I feel more alone than ever when I am in this empty house at night.