Sarah Connor Me vs FatAss Me

I’m going to be completely honest here. I have serious issues with food. Now, you may be thinking, “Duh – obviously all fatasses have some kind of issue with food” and maybe you’re right. But my food problems run so deep that I don’t think I will ever have complete control over them.

Do you ever find yourself able to justify doing something that you don’t want to do? That’s how it is with me and eating. I can justify anything to myself. Sarah Connor Me is thinking, “Are you fucking kidding? You don’t want to make popcorn with a half cup of butter on it. You’ll be fat forever, although forever isn’t even that long because you are going to have a heart attack right now if you eat that shit!” And then FatAss Me is thinking, “I really want popcorn right now. Popcorn isn’t that bad for me. It could be worse. And I won’t eat anything else tonight, so the calories will probably balance out. Mmmm butter.”

And so I’ll make the popcorn, coat it with butter and salt, cram it in my piehole and have binger’s remorse afterwards. I’ll feel physically ill from all the butter, and I’ll hate myself for giving in. So I’ll grab a bowl of frozen yogurt. A big bowl. Because FatAss Me is saying, “Well, you’ve blown it now. Might as well eat that frozen yogurt so you’re not tempted to eat it tomorrow and derail yourself when you’re on track.” At this point, Sarah Connor Me is banging her head against the door repeatedly and has nothing left to say.

SCM is not badass enough to overcome FAM. I’m at a bit of a loss right now as to how to change things so that whenever FAM pipes up, SCM can tell her to shut up and sit down. And maybe even punch her in the face. Because if there’s anything FAM needs, it’s a punch in the face.

I went to the doctor a couple of weeks ago. I go to a walk-in clinic because, when I moved to Calgary 12 years ago, family doctors accepting new patients were impossible to find. So I just went to the walk-in and never bothered to try again when things looked up. Usually the walk-in clinic is fine. The doctor wants to get you out of there as soon as possible, which suits me fine as he or she will give me whatever I ask for. Seriously, if you want drugs, just go to a walk-in and ask for them. But I digress. This doctor I saw two weeks ago was new at the clinic, and seriously hot. As in beautiful. With an Australian (or New Zealand? South Africa? I’m ashamed that I can’t tell the difference) accent.

This guy actually sat down to talk to me. When the subject of my weight came up, he asked me, “Why do you think you binge?” I so appreciated the time he was actually taking with me. Really I did. But if I knew *why* I binge, I imagine a solution could be found. Figuring out why I binge is pretty much a lost cause. I don’t know. I just don’t!

My trainer asked the same thing this morning when we were talking about how my eating was going. I said I tend to go off the rails in the evenings and lately on weekends. She asked why I thought that was. Bleah. I. Don’t. Know. She, like the doctor, is awesome and is trying to help. But I just don’t know.

I’m kind of stuck in this place where I’m trying so hard for SCM to beat the bejeezus out of FAM, but she’s swinging and missing. But at least she’s swinging, right? I mean, in the past, she wasn’t even around.

So that’s where I am – I’m struggling to get control so that I can continue to lose weight and expose the badass body that I’m building under all this fat.

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