Gimme’ your hand.

No, really…feel my belly.

It’s all warm and full of ricotta omelet with onion and salt/pepper. I’m allowed this deliciousness on the Low Glycemic Load Diet.

I woke at about four am and, even though my eyes didn’t want to stay awake, my mind wouldn’t shut off. I lay there listening to my cpap whoosh on, then off, in an endless loop that allows me to breath in my sleep. My left nostril was stuffy and instead of being lulled back into the cool dream about Hank Azaria being my boyfriend who made me laugh and liked my pork roast (and that’s not a euphemism for my giblets…wait…that’s a euphemism for my…….never mind, you get it ),  I felt like I was suffocating. After about a half an hour of pretending to still be asleep and still loved for my pig meat, I got out of bed. Sorta’ staggering out into the kitchen, I heard the cat promptly poop in the dog kennel she sleeps in at night. Athena is a declawed, abandoned cat we took in and fed. She’s old, has become deaf, and is now losing her eyesight as well as forgotten how to use a litter box. We keep her in the large dog cage at night so she can be warm and still not poop and pee all over in my house. She’s cute as Hell but disgusting, too. That removed all wish to eat breakfast. The animals, in general, are Lizz’s duty. (“Eet na’ my yob“)  simply saying “Oh gross. You are foul.” was my only responsibility there…she still had four feet of cage in which to lay. Making a sour face and debating coffee, I sat at my laptop.

All my social networks were abandoned and staring at me with emotionless eyes that accused me of neglect. Sure, I have neglected them, no doubt, but I didn’t need their damned guilt trips. Screw you Facebook and Google +. Back off. I made me the delicious aforementioned omelet and ate it slowly, savoring it.

Heading to the bathroom I decided to step on the scale.

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Yup. It’s still there.

Hmph, who’da guess it.

The ten pound total weight loss was still showing…that’s three days in a row. It must be true.

Last Friday, Lizz’s daddy came to pick her up and actually complimented me on my weight loss. Having not been on the scale in forever I corrected him with thanks and the fact that I lose and gain back the same amount.  The next day, after how many damned diets and how long without veering off them…I can’t even say…I ate probably twenty Hershey’s kisses. I mean, fuggit, right? I lose and regain the same amount, basically staying the same weight no matter what. Arriving home I had hot cocoa; three to be exact. The next day I ate  a quarter cup of semi sweet chocolate bits.

Something made me step on the scale.

No shit…

I sabotaged myself without even knowing I had arrived at something before I did so.

There is an old saying in some twelve step support groups, “Don’t quit before the miracle.” It’s cliche, but it became a cliche because it rang true. Thankfully, the loss has stayed and the damage wasn’t to the scale. I am so used to ineffective action, being on a diet treadmill, and getting no where that I gave up and tripped myself up. I am now weening back off sugar. It’s a bit of a struggle.

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Having started back on Welbutrin, my mouth is so damned dry all the time. forcing fluids is easy now. One side effect is not being hungry very often but the change isn’t in how much I eat, only that I don’t feel HUNGRY. I do have to eat as Lamictal will make me spew if taken on an empty stomach. Coupled with my Low Glycemic Load diet, apparently the weight is finally beginning to budge.

This week will be busy, and while this was a great miracle, the best one is that all my kids will be under one roof from Christmas Eve into Christmas Day. What an overwhelming blessing no matter the financial circumstances. It is more than I hoped for any year…Oh and I turn forty-seven this week…that in and of itself is miraculous. I made it this far. That’s 17, 115 days alive and I haven’t annoyed anyone strong enough to kill me.

Yet.

So the theme now is “Don’t give up before the miracle.”

Oh…And

“Stay away from chocolate, because it’s of da debbil.”