Hal Higdon's Novice 1 Marathon Training Schedule: Week 1, Day 1
Days to Chevron Houston Marathon: 124
Planned activity: Rest
That's right. I'm supposed to rest. It's a good thing. I ran 7 miles yesterday and I'm also nursing a little tenderness in my right heel. Rest is good. The thing is, the weather is stunningly beautiful and cool and calling to me with a siren's seductiveness.
I'll be patient and I'll rest.
I'm also going to the grocery store. I have a copy of the October issue of Runner's World that has some excellent suggestions for my shopping list. I'm at the end of my planned weight loss foods, having dropped almost 40 pounds and arrived at a BMI of 25.8 which makes me pretty freaking happy. My clothes fit great. (At least the ones that aren't falling off of me fit great.) I know that I'll drop more weight as my mileage picks up even further.
More good news: My doctor added another blood pressure medication and it's working. Even with significant weight loss, I was hovering around 145/90 and that's just not going to work for me. She was very thoughtful in her choice of a second medication, taking care not to add a beta blocker or a diuretic because she knows that as a runner she could cause me some real grief. I appreciate her.
I got an email from the Marathon Committee. They asked me to set a goal time. I chose 5:20:00. I have to finish in 6 hours. That's when they close the course. I'm running an 11:15 minute mile most of the time now. That's a very conservative time I sent them. I kind of feel like I wimped out on it but it's my first marathon so I'm allowing myself to do this. This one time. Hell, I was patting myself on the back just for signing up. It's suddenly real and yet - I know it's going to get even more real each and every step along the way. More to come. Wait for it.
©Michelle Scofield, September 10, 2012 All Rights Reserved
Monday, September 10, 2012
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Watching It
I'm enjoying my new Garmin Forerunner 110, purchased at the recommendation of my son. I'm able to see my pace immediately, instead of trying to do the calculation in my head. I was using Runkeeper on my iPhone and it was adequate to track my mileage but once in a while I'd finish a run and realize that I was out in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. Not that that's a bad thing but I'd like to actually BE in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico - say - on a cruise ship. Instead, I was left confused as to how many miles I'd just clocked. If I'm going to be confused, let it be on a chaise lounge with a Vogue magazine in one hand and a Pina Colada in the other.
Other recommendations by my son made were taken less heartily by me. He talked with great enthusiasm about minimal shoes and the book "Born to Run". OK. I bought the book. I'm only a few chapters into the book and so far, so good. I'm not sure where it will lead me but I know that my feet are another story. I've dealt with a stress fracture and I healed it and I'm so grateful for that. It's gone. It's done. Buh bye. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out. However...
I've had a nagging little bite on my lateral right heel. I know it's an insertion point of my plantar fascia. Bugger. I also know that to "protect" my feet while they I was heeling my forefoot fracture, I wore ubercushioned shoes. My heels were elevated and I wasn't allowing my plantar fascia to stretch down. My bad.
I'm paying for it now.
What am I doing?
I'm taking rest days. I'm doing ankle strengthening with bands and I'm stretching.
I bought new shoes. Yes I did. I bought a pair of Nike FreeRun4's. They weigh 4 oz each and, no, they don't have toes but they're as close to barefoot feeling as I think I can get with shoes.
I spend money on running shoes like I used to spend money on Hooker Heels.
This morning I went for a short, slowish (11 minute pace) run. I don't hurt. I'm a happy girl.
I've just got to watch it and pace myself. January is a long way away. And it's one helluva long run.
©Michelle Scofield, September 5, 2012 All Rights Reserved
Other recommendations by my son made were taken less heartily by me. He talked with great enthusiasm about minimal shoes and the book "Born to Run". OK. I bought the book. I'm only a few chapters into the book and so far, so good. I'm not sure where it will lead me but I know that my feet are another story. I've dealt with a stress fracture and I healed it and I'm so grateful for that. It's gone. It's done. Buh bye. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out. However...
I've had a nagging little bite on my lateral right heel. I know it's an insertion point of my plantar fascia. Bugger. I also know that to "protect" my feet while they I was heeling my forefoot fracture, I wore ubercushioned shoes. My heels were elevated and I wasn't allowing my plantar fascia to stretch down. My bad.
I'm paying for it now.
What am I doing?
I'm taking rest days. I'm doing ankle strengthening with bands and I'm stretching.
I bought new shoes. Yes I did. I bought a pair of Nike FreeRun4's. They weigh 4 oz each and, no, they don't have toes but they're as close to barefoot feeling as I think I can get with shoes.
I spend money on running shoes like I used to spend money on Hooker Heels.
This morning I went for a short, slowish (11 minute pace) run. I don't hurt. I'm a happy girl.
I've just got to watch it and pace myself. January is a long way away. And it's one helluva long run.
©Michelle Scofield, September 5, 2012 All Rights Reserved
Saturday, September 1, 2012
I Come From Another Place
Dancing last night with J. We used to go about once a month or so but things happen and it's been a long time. Broken feet happen. Babies happen. Bad bands happen. We got out of the groove. Don't get me wrong. J and I never lose our grooves. We're just too damned groovy to lose our groove.
Our old routine went like this: We'd order dinner (lots of chips and salsa) and talk about our families and our jobs. We'd catch up on news about the old gang. We'd share a pitcher of margaritas or have a couple of martinis each. We'd commiserate about the political and social atmosphere of our nation. Then we'd move on to the dancing venue.
Our new routine goes like this. We go to dinner and talk about our families and our jobs. We catch up on any news about the old gang - there's not much anymore. We might have coffee. We rarely have alcohol at dinner. We commiserate about the political and social atmosphere of our nation. If we're both feeling good and we can find anywhere to dance, we move on to that place. If not, we call it a night and go our separate ways. Last night, we felt great and we had a plan.
The lights were low, the wood paneling was dark, and the band was playing when we entered the room. The music ran all the way through rock and blues to salsa and hiphop. Several couples were already on the dance floor and we found a table not too far away. It didn't take long before the first drive by occurred. A man circled our table and didn't stop. We were being checked out. I asked J if she'd seen him. She hadn't. She never does. It's something I like about her. She's there for the music. I've seen her dance alone many more times than with a partner.
We were served way-too-expensive cocktails and soon were dancing with numerous and varied partners. I feel lucky that I was asked to dance by a man who happened to be quite good at East Coast Swing and I'm not sure if he had as much fun if I did, but I had a blast. It's rare to find anyone who knows how to dance that style these days, let alone is a strong but not painful lead. During a mamba, I feared one older gentleman was having some sort of cardiac event, as evidenced by his profuse perspiration and the way he was mopping his brow with cocktail napkins. I asked him if he wanted to sit down but he insisted on dancing on. We danced on.
You'd think all this would be entertainment enough. But wait. There's more. Another girlfriend arrived. I hadn't seen her in months. Now picture this. Three women. One tall drop-dead gorgeous African-American, one Midwestern brunette, and one tall West-coast looking blonde. 3 women out on the town, dancing with any man who asks, buying their own drinks. What happens during the band breaks? Just this.
A man walks over, sits down at our table and says, "So what's the story here?" He went on to tell two of us that he thought we were quite stunning but "not your blonde friend" - gesturing at her with a shoulder shrug. He turned his body away from her, oh-so-slightly excluding her from his conversation. He actually insulted her, not once, but twice right in front of us. I think he saw her talking to someone and immediately decided she was interested in that person so he didn't have a shot with her. I'm not sure, but his approach was, um, interesting. He went on to tell us that the "guys at the bar" had been talking about us and there was money riding on him coming over and finding out our story...where were we from, how did we know each other, etc. He said he might not be very elegant in his questioning because he "came from another place". Ah! That's it. He asked where I came from. I told him, I also came from another place. Kansas in Truthistan.
Now, know this. The entire time I was talking to him, I was smiling. I was charming. I was Charm School charming. I let him tell us his story about the bar bet and then I leaned forward and told him it wasn't very nice, what he said - twice - to my friend. I continued to smile while I said it. He kept smiling and he shook my hand. He stood and he left.
Best part of the evening. As soon as he left, another man slid right into his seat. My girlfriends and I just cracked up. Poor guy. What was this? Was someone giving out numbers for that booth position?
I don't want anyone to get the idea that we're three women who go out on a mission to mess with men. We don't. It's quite the opposite. We all had a great time and I think the people we danced with did, too. We aren't out to hook up. We aren't out to take advantage. We're just out being humans, enjoying the music. Mr. Swing Dancer was kind enough to tell me of some places I didn't know about where I might run into some other dance-lovers my age. I'll check them out. In the meantime, I'll keep planning dinners with my girlfriends and remembering where I come from. Truthistan, the land of smiling honesty.
©Michelle Scofield, September 1, 2012 All Rights Reserved
Our old routine went like this: We'd order dinner (lots of chips and salsa) and talk about our families and our jobs. We'd catch up on news about the old gang. We'd share a pitcher of margaritas or have a couple of martinis each. We'd commiserate about the political and social atmosphere of our nation. Then we'd move on to the dancing venue.
Our new routine goes like this. We go to dinner and talk about our families and our jobs. We catch up on any news about the old gang - there's not much anymore. We might have coffee. We rarely have alcohol at dinner. We commiserate about the political and social atmosphere of our nation. If we're both feeling good and we can find anywhere to dance, we move on to that place. If not, we call it a night and go our separate ways. Last night, we felt great and we had a plan.
The lights were low, the wood paneling was dark, and the band was playing when we entered the room. The music ran all the way through rock and blues to salsa and hiphop. Several couples were already on the dance floor and we found a table not too far away. It didn't take long before the first drive by occurred. A man circled our table and didn't stop. We were being checked out. I asked J if she'd seen him. She hadn't. She never does. It's something I like about her. She's there for the music. I've seen her dance alone many more times than with a partner.
We were served way-too-expensive cocktails and soon were dancing with numerous and varied partners. I feel lucky that I was asked to dance by a man who happened to be quite good at East Coast Swing and I'm not sure if he had as much fun if I did, but I had a blast. It's rare to find anyone who knows how to dance that style these days, let alone is a strong but not painful lead. During a mamba, I feared one older gentleman was having some sort of cardiac event, as evidenced by his profuse perspiration and the way he was mopping his brow with cocktail napkins. I asked him if he wanted to sit down but he insisted on dancing on. We danced on.
You'd think all this would be entertainment enough. But wait. There's more. Another girlfriend arrived. I hadn't seen her in months. Now picture this. Three women. One tall drop-dead gorgeous African-American, one Midwestern brunette, and one tall West-coast looking blonde. 3 women out on the town, dancing with any man who asks, buying their own drinks. What happens during the band breaks? Just this.
A man walks over, sits down at our table and says, "So what's the story here?" He went on to tell two of us that he thought we were quite stunning but "not your blonde friend" - gesturing at her with a shoulder shrug. He turned his body away from her, oh-so-slightly excluding her from his conversation. He actually insulted her, not once, but twice right in front of us. I think he saw her talking to someone and immediately decided she was interested in that person so he didn't have a shot with her. I'm not sure, but his approach was, um, interesting. He went on to tell us that the "guys at the bar" had been talking about us and there was money riding on him coming over and finding out our story...where were we from, how did we know each other, etc. He said he might not be very elegant in his questioning because he "came from another place". Ah! That's it. He asked where I came from. I told him, I also came from another place. Kansas in Truthistan.
Now, know this. The entire time I was talking to him, I was smiling. I was charming. I was Charm School charming. I let him tell us his story about the bar bet and then I leaned forward and told him it wasn't very nice, what he said - twice - to my friend. I continued to smile while I said it. He kept smiling and he shook my hand. He stood and he left.
Best part of the evening. As soon as he left, another man slid right into his seat. My girlfriends and I just cracked up. Poor guy. What was this? Was someone giving out numbers for that booth position?
I don't want anyone to get the idea that we're three women who go out on a mission to mess with men. We don't. It's quite the opposite. We all had a great time and I think the people we danced with did, too. We aren't out to hook up. We aren't out to take advantage. We're just out being humans, enjoying the music. Mr. Swing Dancer was kind enough to tell me of some places I didn't know about where I might run into some other dance-lovers my age. I'll check them out. In the meantime, I'll keep planning dinners with my girlfriends and remembering where I come from. Truthistan, the land of smiling honesty.
©Michelle Scofield, September 1, 2012 All Rights Reserved
Sunday, August 19, 2012
My Coach
Wonderful phone conversation with my son. Yesterday he ran a Grand Prix race in Louisiana and finished well which will give him more points. I knew he was fast, but I didn't realize how high he ranks in his division until I went to the website and looked for myself.
Proud mama.
He's my off-campus coach for marathon training. I bounce questions off of him, he gives me suggestions. He's super-encouraging but still matter-of-fact when it comes to technical aspects of running. He doesn't cut me any slack. There aren't really any shortcuts to training. The work needs to be done and it needs to be done in a safe way. He bolsters my confidence without blowing smoke up my running gear. If he thinks I can push a little harder, he tells me. If he thinks I'm overdoing it, he gently suggests that I take a few days off. What I love about his suggestions is that he's not authoritarian in his presentation. He repeats back to me what he's heard, states his opinion, and then gives me some options for change. At the end of the day, I'm responsible for my training, my actions, and my workout. He leaves the power in my hands (or my feet, whichever way you want to look at it).
I'd like to think I helped mold his conversation style. After all, I raised him and he must have learned this from me. Right? Nah, I don't think so. I didn't give effective communication style any real thought until he was in college. When he was growing up, I was busy. I was kind of a mess. I was distracted with simply getting through some days and weeks. I wasn't always as present as I should have been. I can't take credit for this. He's somehow managed to do this on his own.
Grateful mama.
As we were wrapping up our phone call yesterday, we were talking about nutrition and weight. He mentioned how much he weighs now and how much he weighed when he finished college. I didn't tell him that I outweighed him most of that time. He's smart, he knows. I was really happy, though, to know that I'm finally at a weight significantly below my tall, thin athlete of a son.
Happy mama.
©Michelle Scofield, August 19, 2012 All Rights Reserved
Proud mama.
He's my off-campus coach for marathon training. I bounce questions off of him, he gives me suggestions. He's super-encouraging but still matter-of-fact when it comes to technical aspects of running. He doesn't cut me any slack. There aren't really any shortcuts to training. The work needs to be done and it needs to be done in a safe way. He bolsters my confidence without blowing smoke up my running gear. If he thinks I can push a little harder, he tells me. If he thinks I'm overdoing it, he gently suggests that I take a few days off. What I love about his suggestions is that he's not authoritarian in his presentation. He repeats back to me what he's heard, states his opinion, and then gives me some options for change. At the end of the day, I'm responsible for my training, my actions, and my workout. He leaves the power in my hands (or my feet, whichever way you want to look at it).
I'd like to think I helped mold his conversation style. After all, I raised him and he must have learned this from me. Right? Nah, I don't think so. I didn't give effective communication style any real thought until he was in college. When he was growing up, I was busy. I was kind of a mess. I was distracted with simply getting through some days and weeks. I wasn't always as present as I should have been. I can't take credit for this. He's somehow managed to do this on his own.
Grateful mama.
As we were wrapping up our phone call yesterday, we were talking about nutrition and weight. He mentioned how much he weighs now and how much he weighed when he finished college. I didn't tell him that I outweighed him most of that time. He's smart, he knows. I was really happy, though, to know that I'm finally at a weight significantly below my tall, thin athlete of a son.
Happy mama.
©Michelle Scofield, August 19, 2012 All Rights Reserved
Saturday, August 18, 2012
It's Saturday, 8am, and I've already put in my long run for the week. Looking at my distance and time, I burned almost 700 calories doing it. I'm quasi-hungry. Probably more thirsty than anything else. I could fix a big breakfast. Or...
I had bran cereal and a half cup of skim milk. I also poured myself a one cup serving of skim milk to drink. Now I'm enjoying my coffee. I'm still a little surprised at the changes I've made when choosing foods.
When I started this journey I struggled daily with feelings of sadness and shame. I felt as if I was being denied something (food) that gave me great pleasure. I felt punished for years of enjoying myself. I wasn't exactly looking at my situation in a positive way. Gradually, the negative yielded to the positive and I turned some corner and started running toward feeling grateful for taking control of my life. I began to be proud of my decisions and of the small gains I was making along the way. Thank goodness.
I'm reading "50/50" by Dean Karnazes. He tells the story of how he ran 50 marathons in 50 days, back in 2006. It's a motivational and touching book. He encountered many challenges and also met some really interesting people along the way. He's sprinkled little tips throughout the book to help the reader understand and prepare for endurance events.
One phrase he uses which really struck me is, "responsible for managing my own nutrition." He talks about some of the mistakes he made and how he felt afterward...sluggish, lethargic, and with muddled thinking. He encourages the reader to consider how food can do just the opposite. If one chooses one's food with thought, the food can provide energy and vitality.
I absolutely believe this translates to our everyday diet choices – not just when we’re training for a marathon. I feel so much better since the addition of lean proteins, whole grains, fresh vegetables, and fruits to my daily intake. When I "give myself a break" and consume a high fat, processed meal, I pay for it with less energy the next day.
To quote Mr. Karnazes: "How much discipline do I really need to do the thing that makes me feel and perform better?" Turns out, not as much as I once thought I did. Months of making healthier choices for myself has turned into more of a habit than a chore. The food I added as fuel gradually replaced the food I was using as comfort. Don't get me wrong. As I told my son on the phone today, I still get an urge for a particular food now and then and I'll allow myself to indulge but I've taken a good hard look at what that indulging actually means.
I no longer eat like it's my last meal. I know that whatever food I want to taste will be there tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. There are myriad reasons I ate as I did previously. I am grateful for each day that brings me understanding of those reasons and also for discovering how much better I feel now. Knowledge is power.
©Michelle Scofield, August 18, 2012 All Rights Reserved
I had bran cereal and a half cup of skim milk. I also poured myself a one cup serving of skim milk to drink. Now I'm enjoying my coffee. I'm still a little surprised at the changes I've made when choosing foods.
When I started this journey I struggled daily with feelings of sadness and shame. I felt as if I was being denied something (food) that gave me great pleasure. I felt punished for years of enjoying myself. I wasn't exactly looking at my situation in a positive way. Gradually, the negative yielded to the positive and I turned some corner and started running toward feeling grateful for taking control of my life. I began to be proud of my decisions and of the small gains I was making along the way. Thank goodness.
I'm reading "50/50" by Dean Karnazes. He tells the story of how he ran 50 marathons in 50 days, back in 2006. It's a motivational and touching book. He encountered many challenges and also met some really interesting people along the way. He's sprinkled little tips throughout the book to help the reader understand and prepare for endurance events.
One phrase he uses which really struck me is, "responsible for managing my own nutrition." He talks about some of the mistakes he made and how he felt afterward...sluggish, lethargic, and with muddled thinking. He encourages the reader to consider how food can do just the opposite. If one chooses one's food with thought, the food can provide energy and vitality.
I absolutely believe this translates to our everyday diet choices – not just when we’re training for a marathon. I feel so much better since the addition of lean proteins, whole grains, fresh vegetables, and fruits to my daily intake. When I "give myself a break" and consume a high fat, processed meal, I pay for it with less energy the next day.
To quote Mr. Karnazes: "How much discipline do I really need to do the thing that makes me feel and perform better?" Turns out, not as much as I once thought I did. Months of making healthier choices for myself has turned into more of a habit than a chore. The food I added as fuel gradually replaced the food I was using as comfort. Don't get me wrong. As I told my son on the phone today, I still get an urge for a particular food now and then and I'll allow myself to indulge but I've taken a good hard look at what that indulging actually means.
I no longer eat like it's my last meal. I know that whatever food I want to taste will be there tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. There are myriad reasons I ate as I did previously. I am grateful for each day that brings me understanding of those reasons and also for discovering how much better I feel now. Knowledge is power.
©Michelle Scofield, August 18, 2012 All Rights Reserved
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Letting Go and Moving On
The "Donate" section of my closet continues to grow with clothes, some of which I really loved. I'm that woman at the movies/restaurant/party who was always falling on the side of dressed up rather than dressed down. It makes me a little sad to see some of those clothes go, considering the places I've taken them. For me, it wasn't a vacation without a couple of cocktail dresses and the accessories to go with them. Looking at that rack in my closet reminds me of Cancun, Las Vegas, New York City, Atlanta, and San Diego.
These days I'm not properly packed for a trip unless I also include my running clothes, shoes, and ponytail elastics.
I'm back to wearing the size Medium scrubs I wore 9 years ago. They're in good shape and they have my name and credentials embroidered on the shirts. Scrubs are silly-expensive if you want to get some that feel good and also won't start to look worn with a few washings. I'm not ready to fork over the money for new sets just now. I'm glad I kept the old ones. They'll have to do for awhile. I tried making some of my size Large pants work by pairing them with a t-shirt but I realized that wearing pants that are too big (even with a drawstring) feels physically uncomfortable.
As I think about my old clothes, a bit of anxiety rises in me and I become hesitant to give them up. I realize that I'm still holding onto the way I've seen myself for the last few years. It's not as easy as I might hope - to embrace this new body - but I'm trying. Rather, I'm trying to be accepting of my evolving self.
My former self was insulated, protected, shielded. My former self put a lot of effort into the shoes, the hair, the makeup and the jewelry. My former self was attempting to cover the foundation of me, piling on adornments. The clothes were a distraction. I could stop someone from seeing the real me by putting something shiny in front of them - a designer gown I'd found at a vintage shop or an interesting necklace. At one time I wore my hair super short. If anything, it was a conversation piece and if they were talking about my hair, maybe people weren't looking at my face or my body.
I didn't really LIKE the way I looked but I could ACT like I did. My pseudo-confidence was astounding and only a few people knew just how lacking in confidence I really was. Am.
Don't get me wrong. I'm going to continue to dress up. I love it. What I'm loving more, though, is that I don't think twice about running out to the grocery store in a t-shirt and shorts, not a lick of makeup on my face. At work I pull my hair back and I wear shoes that don't hurt my feet. Heck, those scrubs I'm wearing now? Battleship gray. The only reason I have them is because they were purchased for me. I would NEVER choose that color for myself but they serve a purpose. I'm not hiding behind them. I'm wearing them. I think there is a difference.
©Michelle Scofield, August 4, 2012 All Rights Reserved
These days I'm not properly packed for a trip unless I also include my running clothes, shoes, and ponytail elastics.
I'm back to wearing the size Medium scrubs I wore 9 years ago. They're in good shape and they have my name and credentials embroidered on the shirts. Scrubs are silly-expensive if you want to get some that feel good and also won't start to look worn with a few washings. I'm not ready to fork over the money for new sets just now. I'm glad I kept the old ones. They'll have to do for awhile. I tried making some of my size Large pants work by pairing them with a t-shirt but I realized that wearing pants that are too big (even with a drawstring) feels physically uncomfortable.
As I think about my old clothes, a bit of anxiety rises in me and I become hesitant to give them up. I realize that I'm still holding onto the way I've seen myself for the last few years. It's not as easy as I might hope - to embrace this new body - but I'm trying. Rather, I'm trying to be accepting of my evolving self.
My former self was insulated, protected, shielded. My former self put a lot of effort into the shoes, the hair, the makeup and the jewelry. My former self was attempting to cover the foundation of me, piling on adornments. The clothes were a distraction. I could stop someone from seeing the real me by putting something shiny in front of them - a designer gown I'd found at a vintage shop or an interesting necklace. At one time I wore my hair super short. If anything, it was a conversation piece and if they were talking about my hair, maybe people weren't looking at my face or my body.
I didn't really LIKE the way I looked but I could ACT like I did. My pseudo-confidence was astounding and only a few people knew just how lacking in confidence I really was. Am.
Don't get me wrong. I'm going to continue to dress up. I love it. What I'm loving more, though, is that I don't think twice about running out to the grocery store in a t-shirt and shorts, not a lick of makeup on my face. At work I pull my hair back and I wear shoes that don't hurt my feet. Heck, those scrubs I'm wearing now? Battleship gray. The only reason I have them is because they were purchased for me. I would NEVER choose that color for myself but they serve a purpose. I'm not hiding behind them. I'm wearing them. I think there is a difference.
©Michelle Scofield, August 4, 2012 All Rights Reserved
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Triggers and Reactions (Or how I almost wrecked my diet over a chicken sandwich.)
The last two days have been difficult for me. As my best friend said, "It's not easy being as passionate about certain issues as you." He's not kidding. I was raised by a firecracker of a mother who never tried to tamp down her response to social issues and I am her clone.
I just need to be careful. I can get in my own way - especially when I feel frustrated about an issue. I fixate, I perseverate, I stew, and I stress. I fight against my own feelings of helplessness by searching for comfort.
If I'm not careful, I'll look for that comfort in food. Why? It reminds me of family, of love, of happier times. The *old* me would take those comforting feelings and eat her way into a dull stupor. If my stomach was full (overfull), I calmed down and stopped fretting. It was my own way of controlling the uncontrollable. No, I couldn't fix a situation but I could withdraw from the pressure I was feeling from it. With food.
As the political season heats up, I'm trying to stay away from heated discussions as much as possible. No mind-changing can happen from an ugly argument: at least none that I'm aware. As I become more physically healthy, I'm more protective of my mental health and I am avoiding conflict when I can.
When I can.
That's the rub. I'm trying to balance being an active, informed member of society with not letting outside factors consume my life. Not an easy task.
Mindfulness of what sets me off, of what triggers my anxiety and my need to fix and control (situations and people) is what I'm banking on. I can't afford to let my emotions drive me to harmful behavior. My body can't take many more years of the abuse I've handed to it. Neither, though, can I ignore my inherent personality. If I attempt to bypass my convictions, I will abandon my very self.
So...I've made some promises to myself - again. Still.
I will be more attentive. I will notice the signals I'm sending to myself. I will give my emotional health it's due.
And thus ends the rant of a woman who spent the last two days on the edge. There. I feel better.
©Michelle Scofield, August 2, 2012 All Rights Reserved
I just need to be careful. I can get in my own way - especially when I feel frustrated about an issue. I fixate, I perseverate, I stew, and I stress. I fight against my own feelings of helplessness by searching for comfort.
If I'm not careful, I'll look for that comfort in food. Why? It reminds me of family, of love, of happier times. The *old* me would take those comforting feelings and eat her way into a dull stupor. If my stomach was full (overfull), I calmed down and stopped fretting. It was my own way of controlling the uncontrollable. No, I couldn't fix a situation but I could withdraw from the pressure I was feeling from it. With food.
As the political season heats up, I'm trying to stay away from heated discussions as much as possible. No mind-changing can happen from an ugly argument: at least none that I'm aware. As I become more physically healthy, I'm more protective of my mental health and I am avoiding conflict when I can.
When I can.
That's the rub. I'm trying to balance being an active, informed member of society with not letting outside factors consume my life. Not an easy task.
Mindfulness of what sets me off, of what triggers my anxiety and my need to fix and control (situations and people) is what I'm banking on. I can't afford to let my emotions drive me to harmful behavior. My body can't take many more years of the abuse I've handed to it. Neither, though, can I ignore my inherent personality. If I attempt to bypass my convictions, I will abandon my very self.
So...I've made some promises to myself - again. Still.
I will be more attentive. I will notice the signals I'm sending to myself. I will give my emotional health it's due.
And thus ends the rant of a woman who spent the last two days on the edge. There. I feel better.
©Michelle Scofield, August 2, 2012 All Rights Reserved
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