Day 1: Healthy Hope's SMART Walking Mission

Hey y'all. Healthy Hope is on the scene again, taking charge of mental and physical care. I have to say, I am feeling pretty righteous and alert for 8:30 in the morning. (I'm soooo not a morning person.) I went for a walk this morning. It feels revolutionary, and I'm hoping that turns out to indeed be the case. I'm in intensive treatment for mental health issues right now and also under an internal medicine doctor's supervision regarding some physical problems as well. Based on my treatment team's suggestion, my own past experience, a TED Talk I watched recently, and encouragement from friends, I've decided to make walking a mile with my dog, Leon, first thing every morning a goal. Today was Day 1.

I used the SMART system to set the goal:

Specific: I will walk Leon for 30 minutes every morning at 7:15 a.m. for one month. (If it rains, I'll do 30 minutes of yoga in my bedroom using videos on my laptop. After one month, I will increase to 45 minutes a day. After another month, I will increase to 1 hour.)

Measurable: Using my Wellness Tracker from DBSA, I'll document whether or not I've done this daily.

Achievable: I know I can do 30 minutes of activity at my current fitness level. It fits into my schedule. I bought new shoes and plantar fasciitis-fighting inserts for them to prevent injury that could derail my efforts. My neighborhood is safe for walking. It's cooler in the mornings, so I'll less likely be deterred by the heat.

Relevant: I need to do this for several reasons. It will help raise my good cholesterol, lower my blood glucose levels, help me reach a healthy weight, improve my mood and concentration, help me sleep better, and benefit Leon.

Time-bound: I have scheduled this first thing in the morning before anything can happen to distract me from the walk. I'm giving myself a generous interval to get used to the activity before increasing its length. This should be a lifelong habit, so there's no end date.

I have to say, I feel righteous after this morning's walk. My friend Julie shared with me that exercising in the morning sets her up for the day with a feeling of accomplishment. So true. I'm looking forward to seeing the benefits of this new habit.

Cardio is Causing Me Panic

Today I went to the gym and was quite embarrassed to do only 5 minutes on the elliptical, then leave. My heart rate and breathing were scaring me, even though I wasn't going very fast. When I say "scaring me," I mean I could feel a panic attack coming on if I didn't stop. For one thing, I am confused about my target heart rate. Another, I have exertion-induced asthma. Any time my heart gets pumping and my lungs start working, I worry I'll have an asthma attack, which sometimes triggers a panic attack. It's for real embarrassing. I'm afraid of moving. Ugh.
In my mind, I'm going to the gym to complete these intense fat-burning workouts. But the reality is, I've got to get used to using my body again. Reminder: I was bed-ridden for 6 months. I've forgotten how to breathe properly. My muscles aren't used to doing ANYTHING.
I have a few ideas on how to proceed:
1. Give up now. (Ain't gonna happen, Hope)
2. Talk to a gym employee about helping me figure out the heart rate business.
3. Skip aerobics at the gym for now and get my walks in around the neighborhood, since that doesn't seem to freak me out. Use the gym for circuit machines.
4. Instead of thinking of this as a fitness routine, think of it instead as physical therapy, like I'd do in a rehab facility. Take this project away from Harley and give it to Tara. (I have a handful of persona's that serve various purposes. Harley is my inner bitch. She's the one who gives Hope a talking to when Hope is being lazy and making excuses. Harley is a good motivator, but she can be a bit harsh. Tara is the compassionate, wise, nurturing one. She can gently but firmly help me rehab myself until I'm ready for the gung ho Harley to resume cracking the whip.)
I'll try some of these alternative approaches this coming week and see if I can gain a sense of control over my physical efforts.
Fortunately, the nutrition portion of Operation Healthy Hope is going better. I'm doing one Coke a day but otherwise severely limiting carbs. I'm making sure I eat three times a day.
Oh, my initial weigh in is 210 pounds.

A Two-Year Backslide Takes a Toll

It's been nearly two years since I last wrote, since I felt victorious about losing 50 pounds. A handful of things have conspired against me since then, and I've gained most of that back. I've had thyroid problems, new medications with adverse metabolic side effects, deep depression and lack of give-a-damn. Plus, when I lost the 50, my general practitioner told me to consider myself at goal weight and stop monitoring my diet and exercise so closely. I don't know how to maintain. I went a little crazy with the perceived freedom that my journey was done, assuming that meant I had permission to slack off, skip the gym, eat whatever I wanted. I mean, I wasn't that blatantly ridiculous, but looking back it feels like it. I started drinking REAL COKE again. One a week. One a day. Six a day. It took nearly two years to descend into the current state of health, or Unhealth, but here I am.
But I'm ready to fix it.
So, as my 39th birthday looms (Sept. 10, 2017), I am setting myself a deadline of my 40th birthday to lose 75 pounds. I don't know exactly what I weigh right now. A few months ago at the doc's office, it was 207. Which was startling. I honestly never thought I'd get above 200 again. But here I am. I'll note my current weight on Sept. 11 when I hit the START button.
I am going to get back on the diabetic diet, counting carbs. That worked well for me before. I've actually reversed the diabetes but fall in the "pre-diabetic range" ... so I need to shape up before I'm in trouble again. I also have polycystic ovary syndrome, which plays havoc with how I metabolize carbs. So low carb is a good approach for me, although I concede it's not ideal for everyone. (Please, if you're setting off on a fitness and nutrition journey, don't look to me for expertise. I'll post links to other experts here as I run across interesting information, but I'm a layperson, for sure.)
Oh yeah. The gym. This new place in Niceville, FL, (where I call home) was having a "sign up before the official opening" special, so I bit the bullet. And even though this new journey of mine doesn't really start until Sept. 11, I figured it wouldn't hurt to test the waters. See, I've just come out of a severe depression where I was pretty much bedridden for 6 months. I ain't moved a muscle in a LONG TIME. I was hoping to do a slow 30-minute stint on the elliptical but promised myself I'd quit at 10 minutes if I felt like I was dying. Well, I did indeed feel as if my heart were going to beat out of my chest if I kept going, so 10 minutes and I was done. My resting heart rate hovers around the 90s, so I'm not sure what my target heart rate is for cardio. Note to self: Find out! During my elliptical adventure, it got up to 180, which just seemed scary. I have no idea whether that was safe or not. Again, must research. In any case, this was two days ago, and I decided to skip a day and then go back for another 10 (maybe 12?) minutes.
But then I pulled a quad while stretching. I woke up sore the day after the gym (yesterday). Last night I soaked in a hot bath and did some stretching right before bed. Today when I woke up, I had a sharp pain in the top of my right leg. I tried some gentle stretching, but that seemed to make it worse. And just walking around the house has been a little painful. So I'm not doing the elliptical again today as planned. Hopefully tomorrow? If I don't feel up to that, I'll probably go to the gym just to help get into the routine of going, experiment with the circuit machines or something.
I knew I was out of shape, but this is humbling. I used to get on the elliptical and run for an hour and 15 minutes. Of course, that was in 2011. And it took months to build up to that. I think back then I started at 10 minutes too, now that I'm honest with myself. The upside is that when Sept. 11 rolls around and I begin again for real real, I will have a clearer picture of what I'm capable of doing in my current condition.
Wish me luck, folks!


(Author's note: I encourage comments but prefer them on Facebook, as this site seems to eat threads sometimes. I look forward to discussing fitness, nutrition, and motivation with y'all.)

My Secret to Losing 50 Pounds

This week I hit a milestone with weight loss. I've shed 50 pounds the 9 months since my diabetes diagnosis. People keep asking me to identify my secret. I always struggle to articulate it, because it's not just one thing. I've done a complete overhaul of how and what I eat. But the biggest change hasn't been counting carbs or making spinach my new BFF (best food forever). It's been my attitude toward my health, toward my self.
When I was growing up, my Mama worked hard to provide healthy meals. But we were poor, so that wasn't always easy. There was a lot of bread and pasta, because those items are cheap. The veggies she offered, well, I just rejected them. I mean, threw them up. Especially lettuce. I can't abide the stuff still. Mama tried, is what I'm saying.
But when I moved out and left her care, entering married life and college, I made a lot of bad decisions foodwise. Not all of this was my fault. My husband worked at a bread factory, so we got a lot of free bread. And NO FAT was the diet fad, so I ate carbs to my heart's content. My weight ballooned out of control, and I couldn't figure out why. I was exercising. I was expanding.
After college I got diagnosed with PCOS (polycystic ovary syndrome), which explained a lot things. But the relevant part is that PCOS means my body doesn't metabolize carbs correctly. For x amount of carbs that makes a normal person gain 1 pound, I would gain up to 5 pounds from that same x carbs.
Another problem was that I'd started using food as a coping skill. If I felt deprived in any area of my life, I'd take myself out to a restaurant to prove I wasn't still in poverty. The spending and being waited on made me feel like I'd made something of myself.
And if I was upset, I'd scarf down carbs, especially Co'-Cola. I used to drink about 7 12-oz. cans a day.
Throughout high school I'd weighed about 110 pounds. By the time I was 22, I weighed 248 pounds. That was my record high. I have yo-yo dieted for years. I finally made peace with being overweight. With, let me just say it, being FAT. I learned to love my body and feel sexy even in plus size clothes.
A few years ago, my grandpa got diabetes, and my own fear of developing it (I had a number of risk factors, so it seemed inevitable) motivated me to join Weight Watchers. I did well on that program, up to a certain  point. Then I went to grad school and put health on the back burner, then lost sight of it completely. I started eating my feelings again and went from 5 days a week at the gym to no exercise at all.
Fast forward a bit to February 2015. I had diabetes. It made me feel like I was at death's door. Once my blood sugar levels finally normalized, I felt like a new woman. And I never wanted to feel that bad again. I made a commitment -- again -- to eat right. I threw myself into patient education, going to classes at three different agencies. I had an iron will. Every time I wanted to cheat, I'd ask myself if that piece of pizza was worth losing my eyesight, losing a limb, etc. So fear was a big factor in the beginning.
Aside from learning about new eating habits, I had to learn and put into practice new coping skills. Music has saved me. If I'm upset and want to reach for a bag of chips, I practice guitar instead until the feeling passes. If I want to guzzle down a Coke, I look up lyrics and try to memorize them. I must be honest and say that I do still indulge (rarely) in chips and Coke and cake. But I plan for these splurges, and I measure how much I have. It's never in reaction to anything. Eating is not an emotional Band-Aid for me anymore.
Another thing that really helped me was my very short-lived job in child welfare. While I was in training and learning about all the maltreatments, ways you can abuse or neglect a child, I started thinking about how I love myself. Or how I show it. Or don't. I've always wanted children, but that's never been in the cards for me. And learning about child abuse made it impossible not to consider how I would raise a child.
Somewhere along the way, it dawned on me that while I can't (at this point in my life at least) pour that love and nurturing out on a child, I can pour it on myself. Because if I could make a living protecting children, couldn't I also make a life of protecting myself? Wasn't I worthy of an advocate?
In some creative writing exercises years ago, I named aspects of myself for journaling purposes. My inner child is named Suzie. My inner wise woman is named Tara. My inner bitch is Harley. Anyway, I revisited the idea of focusing on these aspects. What I decided was that it was Tara's job to take care of Suzie, who's diabetic. Suzie's in need of good nutrition. Tara loves Suzie with all her being and makes choices based on what's good for Suzie's health and doesn't give in to Suzie's tantrums and fits about wanting a doughnut. She does give Suzie treats. In moderation. So Suzie isn't totally deprived. And Harley, well, her job is to make me exercise. She reminds Healthy Hope that discipline is necessary. That I will feel better after I walk a mile and a half. Healthy Hope then dons her super hero cape and heads out the door ready to fight for her life. Her quality of life, at least.
I get that it's weird to be so elaborate with head games to make myself do what I should. But it works for me.
The big secret is I love myself now more than I ever have before. And I protect those I love and do what I can to make them happy. Health is essential to happiness, so I base my decisions on that as opposed to going for the instant gratification these days.
Every single time I reach for food or drink, I reflect on whether Suzie will benefit or end up in the hospital. Or maybe she's had a crappy day and could use a Snickers Bar. Or half of one maybe. Just this one time, because she's been so good for a month.
The scale moves in fits and starts. I'll drop 7 pounds in a week. Then be stuck for a few weeks. When I get stuck, I re-evaluate, tighten up where I've been slacking. If necessary, I enact more restrictions.
As far as the food stuff goes, there are a million things I've changed. Well, it seems like a million, though I'm sure that's not quite accurate.
I want to lose 50 more pounds. It will be hard, just as it has been so far. I haven't been at a healthy weight since I was 16. I look in the mirror now, and I see my bone structure in my face. It's proof that my self-love is paying off. I can reach down to tie my shoes without contorting my body or getting out of breath. That motivates me too.
Sure, I get discouraged. And when I was battling depression and anxiety, it was nearly impossible to make good choices all the time. But even then, I noticed that I didn't revert 100 percent back to the old, unhealthy Hope. I had faith that I would pull through. And that I didn't want to land myself in the hospital with blood sugar of 356 again.
I'm still in the process of learning how certain foods affect my sugar levels. I'm still trying new recipes. I'm still trying new products at the grocery store. There is a lot of trial and error.
But through it all is pride that I am capable of taking care of myself. That I am in fact a competent adult. That I would be a good mom if I ever get that opportunity, because I can do a good job of loving and protecting myself.
So I know I will reach that goal weight of 129 pounds. I'm giving myself a year to lose the next 50. I deserve to be healthy and happy. And I'm going to give myself my best chance at being Healthy Hope. And when I get there, I imagine I will feel like a super hero for real. I may even make myself a costume and take pictures to commemorate it. Because fiction selves make sense for me. They help me get through the days.
So if you want to match my success, I suggest you find a part of yourself that deserves your compassion. Then fiercely commit to taking care of that "person," no matter what it takes. Make it your responsibility to take care of that "person," who happens to be 100 percent dependent on you for his/her well-being.
Love yourself. Radically.

Lettuce, Spinach, and Kale, oh my!

I am 36 years old, and lettuce makes me puke. Still. Always has. Yesterday I refused a sandwich that had lettuce on it, and Mama thought I was being a spoiled brat. She swore lettuce doesn’t even have a taste, that I could take the stuff off the sandwich and eat it. Spoiled, yes. No argument. But I simply can’t eat anything that’s been tainted by lettuce.

Several years ago I was in the Taco Bell drive-through with my BFF. I’d ordered tacos, meat and cheese only. As soon as they handed me the bag, which was rolled closed a bit, I wrinkled my nose and thought, “Did I not say no lettuce?” Seeing my expression, BFF asked what was wrong. “There’s lettuce ….” “You haven’t even opened the bag.” “I smell it.” And sure enough, there was one tiny sliver of lettuce on one of the tacos. I searched for more, but that one piece was all I found. No need to yell at the employees (not that I routinely yell at people, but that was a close call). Since it was such an itty bitty sliver, I removed it and managed to choke down the taco. BFF rolled her eyes. This is my “Princess and the Pea” superpower: the ability to sniff out lettuce.


When I was growing up, Mama tried her hardest to get me to eat things that were not fried in bacon grease. It was a losing battle. Every time she tried to make me eat a salad (always lettuce based), I would instantly heave it up. Not the greatest experience at the dinner table, so Mama gave it up eventually. As an adult, I’ve tried it a few times off and on to see if my taste buds have matured. Nope!


I can’t really explain why it offends me so. It’s a texture thing mostly, I think. It’s sort of like crunchy water. But I like ice, so that isn’t it precisely. I don’t know. If you want to chalk it up to me being weird, I’ll allow it. Just the thought of it *shudders*…. gross!


Anyway, in the way of all adults who need to lose weight, I decided a while back salad would have to be a necessary part of my new “lifestyle change.” My Nutrition Nazi No. 1 friend (I say that with love!) decided to be sneaky and get me to try a spinach-based salad. She made me one with grilled chicken, diet cheese, turkey bacon, diet ranch … ALL the healthy. I wasn’t overly impressed, but at least I didn’t spit it out. Whoohoo! That’s a win, right? I wasn’t crazy about that particular variation, but I did start eating spinach, grapes, and pecans. I tried a raspberry vinaigrette dressing. It didn’t inspire me, so I just eat that combo plain. I really like it. As in actually sometimes want to eat it. On purpose, not just out of fear I’ll die without salad intake as part of my diet.


In my own explorations of online recipes, I came across a tuna salad salad. The tuna salad bit has a little mayo, apples, pecans, and, ya know, tuna. I dump that on spinach. Use Newman’s Own Olive Oil and Vinegar dressing. This I actually crave from time to time. It’s miraculous. Of course, my BFF thinks it’s hilarious I needed a recipe to make tuna salad, but hey. Cooking isn’t really my thing. I don’t even know if I’d ever eaten tuna salad before, because, well, it had the word “salad” in it. I keep the recipe stored electronically in case I ever need a refresher. Really.


I have to admit, though, my favorite salad ever was at Slice Pizza and Brew in Birmingham, Alabama. Their spinach salad has bacon, caramelized onion, mushroom, grated egg, and house warm bacon vinaigrette. I ate around the mushroom (not a fan), but the rest was GREAT! Did I mention the warm bacon vinaigrette? Excuse me for a moment while I relive the glory *mmmmm* … OK, so where was I? Right. Turns out all I needed to enjoy salad was bacon grease. Who knew? My cousin RL, that’s who! And blessings unto you, RL. I thank you!


Most recently, my Nutrition Nazi No. 2 friend held my hand while I bravely learned a new salad recipe. She supervised me cutting up a mango, chopping up kale, massaging kale, making a dressing from scratch, etc. She was concerned at how close I came to chopping off a finger with the sharp pointy thingy … chef’s knife? I don’t know. She was amused at all the Ick! faces I made. But in the end, she was proud I actually made a salad and ate a whole portion with no retching noises. It was hard to classify what I thought of the salad. It was not fantastic, but not bad either. Just strange. Which means I may have to revise my food rating system, which has always been: “spit it out,” “not bad,” or “OMG *close eyes in foodgasm*.” I need a new category for stuff that I’m not sure about but am willing to try to incorporate into my diet. Yay for being open, right? So I guess I’ll call that category “strange.”


Author’s note:
The kale salad recipe can be found at: http://www.food.com/recipe/massaged-kale-salad-aarti-sequeira-436159
The tuna salad salad, I can’t remember the source. But here goes.

5 oz. light tuna (canned in water), drained

2 Tbsp low-cal mayo

1 medium apple, diced

pecans to taste

3 cups fresh spinach

2 Tbsp Newman’s Own Olive Oil and Vinegar Dressing

Combine first four ingredients. Serve on spinach and drizzle with dressing.

Co'-Cola, You Know I'll Always Love You ...

My relationship with Co’-Cola has been long and enduring. Think Object Constancy. People come and go--die, divorce me, pick drugs over me--but Coke is always there for me. But then I got diagnosed with Type II Diabetes. So I had to have the whole “it’s not you; it’s me” conversation with the true love of my life. It sucked.

 

When I got diagnosed, I was locked in a hospital for 7 days and completely deprived of my sugary drug of choice--which made the separation easier, I suppose. When I gained my freedom, I’d gotten over the caffeine withdrawal headache, which was monstrous, I assure you. I was terrified if I indulged again I would either die, go into a permanent coma, ruin my liver, lose my vision, have a stroke, have a heart attack, have my limbs amputated … you get the idea. Nothing less would have made me give up Coke.

 

I’ve tried and failed so many times. In fact, I once shared a list of life goals with my cousin-friend Randi Leigh, and she laughed pretty hard that I had marked “given up” by that goal but still had Meet the Dalai Lama included. “You really think that’s more likely to happen than you giving up a soft drink?” Ahem. I DID, in fact, get to see the Dalai Lama give a talk in New Orleans shortly after that conversation, so THERE. While I didn’t technically meet him, I do consider that goal pretty much accomplished.

 

Anyway, the diagnosis was early February. No Coke for at least a month. Then I let myself try 4 ounces, just to see what would happen. My sugar spiked pretty quick like, and I immediately felt like crap. No way to sugarcoat it (ick, bad word choice). I could not drink Coke anymore. Ever.

 

So, I was militant in not even taking a sip.

 

Until I lost my job this week. On Monday, I got fired for, haha, being diabetic. Not that simple, but that’s sort of the story. I believe it was justified, blah, blah, but that doesn’t make it suck any less.

 

Since I seemed to have misplaced my healthy coping skills--or not misplaced, but doubted their potency (a bubble bath or watching the waves for an hour was NOT going to fix this)-- I bought myself a cold 20-ounce Coke. I waited til I got home to drink it, lest I spike my sugar, pass out and wreck. I even made sure Mama was on the couch with me in case she needed to rush me to the hospital. See, responsible like.

 

And it was good. Oh, was it good. But. It wasn’t THE SAME. It was too sweet. The corn syrup didn’t bite the back sides of my tongue like it was supposed to. Usually that first sip is so divine, I close my eyes in ecstasy and all is instantly right with the universe. Ommmmm.

 

Like an awkward former couple where too much damage has been done, too much time has passed, the relationship has been irrevocably damaged. I felt a couple of tears well up before I finished the bottle, but blinked them away. (No, I’m not kidding). I wasn’t crying because I lost my job; I was crying because I’d lost my Co’-Cola.

 

I know y’all think I’m being ridiculous. But let me try to explain a bit more.

 

When I was growing up, sweet tea was constant but in a different way. It was always on hand. I was either drinking it or watching Mama make it, or later making it myself. We were never out of tea bags or sugar. I mean, this was red-dirt-road Alabama. And we took our tea seriously. I mean, I only call it sweet tea because some non-Southerners might be reading this, and I don’t want y’all confused. If you ordered sweet tea in those parts, you’d out yourself as “ain’t from ‘round here” quicker than your accent ever would. So tea. It was delicious, but I took it for granted.

 

Coke, on the other hand, was a treat. When Daddy loaded us all up in the truck to visit his parents, or take us to the beach maybe, sometimes we’d stop at Stinson’s and get a cold 8-oz. glass treasure from the machine out front. If we were extra lucky, we’d go inside and I’d get a little pack of Sixlets. But the Coke was what I pined for, what I delighted in. We passed that store every time we went to school, every time we went to town. So I’d look forward to just seeing the dang Coke machine. But actually stopping wasn’t super common. Still, it was THERE.

 

When I was an adult, I could buy Coke anytime I wanted, more or less. I became a habitual user, but I never lost the high.

Hope and Coke on a date at the zoo in Trinidad, fall 2013.

 

Then came a trip to Trinidad and Tobago. I’d known in theory that different countries had different formulas of Coke. But I was unprepared for the weirdness of Coke with no corn syrup. I drank it constantly nonetheless, and I’m sure the people who were dealing for me would be shocked to hear me say I didn’t like it as good as my home version given the mass quantities I drank while I was interning that semester.

 

But the first thing I did when I got home was demand a meal of Coke and boiled peanuts. Do not judge. Bama girl, remember? It was glorious.

 

Sure, it was fantastic to, you know, see friends and family, have access to hot water, be able to understand everybody’s accent, see pine trees, be HOME. But, oh, the COKE. Sigh. What a reunion.

 

Anyway, back to this week. I thought that maybe because my Monday Coke was in a plastic bottle, that was the problem. So I snuck into Walmart like a criminal Tuesday and bought a 6-pack of the good stuff. The 8-oz. glass bottles. Put ‘em in the fridge. Waited hours to make sure they were well and truly chilled. And I popped one open, thrilling at the little fizzy noise. I took a tentative sip. And motherf--------! Still too sweet! Are you friggin’ kidding me??????? I had the second one Wednesday. A third yesterday. Same deal. I guess it really is over.

 

I have three left. I am going to give them away. There’s no point in drinking them. I don’t get the same emotional payoff. And it’s too dangerous anyway, what with the aforementioned threat of death, coma, amputations, etc.

 

I know I should be glad, as this development will make it easier to stick to my new healthy eating lifestyle. (expletives deleted). This is a GOOD thing. This IS a good thing. THIS is a good thing.

 

Maybe if I say it enough, find the right inflections, I’ll move on and get to a place of acceptance. Maybe.

Author’s note: Don’t tell me to try Coke Life with stevia. I did. It sucks. Same with Diet Coke. That stuff should be removed from the market, it’s so awful. It’s over for Coke and me, and that’s all she wrote.