Blast from the past
“I tied a dead chicken around his neck.”
“Yes, I see that,” I said eyeing the obviously dead and decaying chicken.
“He will never kill another one,” she determined.
She would likely never get away with it in 2009 but in 1975, there was no such thing as animal rights activists—at least not in rural Manitoba. My mother-in-law was convinced that some good old fashioned canine psychology would do the trick and King, the german shepherd pup, would likely think twice about selecting another delicacy from the hen house after he wore the rotting collar for a while.
I had to render my own version of Chicken a la King this month. I needed to suffer a little behaviour modification therapy due to a tumble off the proverbial wagon of righteous eating while sunning myself in Southern California.
A year ago, I discovered the connection between the flour and sugar products and my food addiction. I eliminated all breads, pastas, cakes and any thing containing sugar from my menu selection for 366 days. I went through the physical withdrawals, mental pity parties, emotional outbursts and spiritual wilderness as I passed on morning toast, turned down Birthday cakes and switched from wine to sparkling water. Eighty pounds lighter and no longer gorging myself—I thought I had arrived. Then, I crash landed.
The first few days into my So-Cal visit I ate righteously—which to my definition are three measured meals, sans flour and sugar, with nothing in between. The family members, whom I had not seen since my highest recorded weight of 247 pounds, were shocked. It was a whole new me and I felt normal. I was there to attend a family wedding. My mom was the only sibling that stayed behind in Winnipeg to complete nurses training while her father, step-mother and assorted siblings followed my grandfather’s California Dreamin’ heart in 1954. My mother longed to follow them, eventually. Although she came close and we visited many times, she died just as she was making plans to immigrate.
The wedding invitation stated ‘formal attire’ and the event would be held at a country club in Thousand Oaks. The day before the wedding I was invited to ‘high tea’ at the Four Seasons with the bridesmaids. Drunk with the euphoria of luxury I sipped tea, enjoying the peaceful view through the large windows and then suddenly, I attacked the plates of crustless sandwiches, petit fours, scones and devonshire cream. I became consumed with counting what my fair share would be as the towers of sugary, pasty, greasy goods were passed around. I no longer was having meaningful conversation or serenely basking in royal ambience. I had opened the door a crack, convinced I could handle just a little taste and the monster was back. It was a mudslide of chocolate, martinis, fillet mignon, and I landed in a pile of red velvet wedding cake the next evening. I had succumbed to the physiological response to my drug and I was in full blown relapse. And it wasn’t to end quickly. My husband and I spent the next ten days with another couple touring through the mountains in BC and the northern states. Ironically, it was on this annual motorcycle trip a year ago when I dropped to my knees in desperation!
Now, before you visualize me running around the village of Heisler with a rotting mass decaying food tied around my neck, let me assure you, I am not. However, if you were to come into my kitchen today, you will see a large bowl of stale popcorn sitting on the counter. It isn’t a rotting chicken, but likely a few flies have taken a dip and I am suspicious that my cat has pawed a kernel or two.
The damage to my weight loss was not as severe as I feared. I weighed ten pounds more than I had when I left the country. I struggled to get back into recovery mode for days. Eating food that is not on my plan, snacking and taking more than what I know to be right for me are some of the ways that I behaved since my fall. One of my favorite binge foods, popcorn, became an obsession. If I really want to have some, there it is. Needless to say, it is losing its attractive qualities.
The good news is, I am back. My mornings begin with a commitment call to my peers and I am taking time to focus on God and meditate on his word daily.
I remember, not with shame or dismay, but with hope and knowledge that there is a way out—no matter what choices I make. I no longer fear failure or beat myself up when I make a poor decision.
How long will the bowl of popcorn stay on the counter? I am not sure. It took about a week for the chicken to fall off of King’s neck. He never did kill another one—at least not in our henhouse.
Reprinted from an article I wrote for Real Women on the Run magazine 2009. Donna Lynne Erickson
