I finally got around to watching Eat, Pray, Love over the weekend. As movies go, it was okay . . . something to watch to pass the time. Julia Roberts, as Liz, was stunning, as usual; but the story itself dragged a bit. However, one particular scene really resonated with me. It was the scene where she and Sofi, a Swedish girl she meets in Italy go to Naples, and they are eating pizza. Well, Liz is eating pizza, and Sofi is just looking at hers, lamenting that while she really wants to eat it, she has gained ten pounds, her jeans don’t fit and she has developed a “muffin top.” Liz responds:
“I am so tired of saying “No” and then waking up in the morning and recalling every single thing I ate the day before, counting every calorie I consumed so that I know how much self-loathing to take into the shower. I have no interest in being obese—I’m just through with the guilt.”
Until recently, have I done that exact thing, beating myself up for taking one more roll, or the second piece of chocolate or indulging in the gooey deliciousness of good baked Brie. I would even take it a step further and self-castigate over past decisions, life choices, and some situations over which I had no control.
“ . . . I know how much self-loathing to take into the shower.” Ugh, I did that every.single.day.
A year ago, I was struggling with depression and trying to stay quit from smoking, dealing with antidepressants and the resultant weight gain and probably drinking too much. Okay, I was drinking too much. I had a bad case of “empty nest syndrome;” two of my dogs died, work was slow to dead, and I fell into a severe state of apathy to go along with the depression. I was so tired of trying to “fix” myself; I just wanted to let myself “be.”
And here’s where things got better, sort of: I started smoking again. I lost my appetite for the food and wine. I also decided I was fed to the teeth with the antidepressants, which were obviously not working; after consulting with my doctor, I weaned myself off of them.
Slowly, over the course of the next couple of months, the depression lifted and the pounds came off without my really trying to “diet.” I came to realize that the self-flagellation over anything perceived as off limits only served to make things worse.
So I stopped. “I’m just through with the guilt”. Gad, how simple is that?
I don’t know where I going with this, exactly. I know I can’t indulge in every culinary delight that might come my way, and living out here in the middle of nowhere, those are few and far between. And I know that in the future I’ll make wrong turns and a poor decision here and there. But you know what? I’m human . . . I am not, and never will be perfect . . . and that’s okay.
I’m just through with the guilt.
