I was doing yoga the other day (the first time in way too long), and had one of those moments. You know, those moments when you catch a glimpse of a part of you and think, "Whoa. Is that me?"
These days, I'm pretty thin. Most women, I know, would say, "Tough life! Oh that we could all have your problems!" And I suppose I'll take the problems that come with being thin that the ones that come with being fat, but still, being thin isn't always a picnic.
I think that I share a commonality with people who are overweight. I actually think about food all the time. But my thoughts aren't happy ones (although I don't know if obese people have happy thoughs, either.) I'm constantly thinking about what I should make for dinner, if I'm eating enough protein, if my kids are getting what they need.
These thoughts depress me.
And then I don't eat.
This is not to say that I'm depressed. I'm fairly certain I am not. But when it comes to food, I do get depressed. I get depressed because I can't just toss a turkey into the oven, or I can't just put together a chicken salad. And I miss steak. Like, a lot.
I've never been one to stress eat. That's not my style. My depression style (is there such a thing? I should totally get credit for inventing it if there isn't) is more of a curl up and hide under the covers kind of deal. Food isn't really something that feeds my soul, although my husband repeatedly tells me that I'm much happier with calories in my body. Go figure.
I know I have to figure this food thing out. I saw a dietician, and she was absolutely great. But it's hard to make these changes, even as I come up on the anniversary of my diagnosis and the year mark of vegetariansism (holy crap, where does the time go?)
But I can't spend another year not eating. Even yoga can't replace the muscle mass I'd lose. And then scrawny wouldn't even begin to describe me.