Post Christmas Blues

So Christmas has come and gone.  And I'm feeling guilty.  And it's pissing me off.

My plan for eating over the holidays was simple.  No limits.  Simple as that.  I knew that the three family meals I was going to be at would have my most favorite foods.  I knew that the snacking table would be loaded with my favorite salty snacks.  I knew better than to say to myself Deny Deny Deny and then circle the drain of a shame cycle.

So I went with my eyes wide open, ready to enjoy three days of celebration with my families.  I made the decision to not deny myself.  I gave myself permission to ... well, there's no other way to put it except to say PIG OUT.

And, as it was, I didn't.

I snacked all day, but I wasn't stuffing snacks in by the fistful.  No, I grazed and not at a constant rate,  just every now and again.

I ate what I wanted at the meals, and damn the carbs.  But I was satiated after the first serving. So I stopped and did not stuff myself to the point of pain.  There was no feelings of scarcity or thoughts of "get it now while you can cause you don't know when you can do this again." I simply had enough.

I did not take leftovers home with me, despite my mother saying it would just spoil at her house (it won't; she'll freeze it). I knew that this freedom I'd allowed myself was limited.  Taking it home would have meant extending that freedom.

All in all, it was a good weekend.  I should be proud that I gave myself permission rather than scold myself for failing in the face of such temptation.  I should be proud that I stopped when I was satisfied and didn't keep eating for eating's sake.

But I'm not.  I am unhappy.  I'm in a shame cycle anyway.

And it pisses me off.

I gained 10 pounds according to the home scales.  Now, intellectually I know it is impossible to put 10 pound of fat on in a weekend.  I know it is water binding with all the carbs I ate to form the glycogen molecule.  I know it is the food as it's being, um, processed.  I know that it is the effect of my three days of permission...of going off program...of the very thing I made a clear and conscious decision to do.

But, damn.  10 pounds?

I hear the left hand side of the conversations in my head.  And he's laughing.  He makes me feel like I'm not taking it seriously.  Like I'm just doing it for show.  After all, I'm only three weeks out from recommitting to the program.

But that's his job, even when he's wrong.

So, enough.

The weekend is over and it cannot be changed.  I enjoyed myself as I wanted and allowed.  I know that these bad feelings will pass as time goes on.  I accept this pain and will not suffer.

I move forward.  I look back not by turning my head, but by looking through the rear view mirror.