At home in front of the TV last night, I had already eaten dinner–a steak with mounds of romaine lettuce, light sesame ginger dressing two-32 ounce tumblers of water (1 crystal light packet split between the two). As I enjoyed vegging out in front of the TV watching the breaking news on the capture of the Boston Marathon terrorists, the cravings began.
They weren’t in my stomach. They were in my head. I watched the reporters as they gave accounts of gun fire heard on the streets. I wanted to stay planted in front of the TV instead of giving in to the cravings to stuff myself with who knows what. I refused to get up and go look in the cabinets or the refrigerator because that would be giving in.
I wanted something to comfort me as I listened to the news about events earlier in the day that Tamerlan Tsarnaev, the older brother had been killed in a gun battle with police (if you are going to do horrible things to your country and countrymen then good riddance). After a door to door manhunt for the younger brother, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev he had been cornered hiding in a boat (of all things). It was upsetting news. I thought about my own neighborhood and the events in this small city where I live. The only event that could be comparable to the Boston Marathon would be a NASCAR race here in the State. If terrorism can strike during an event like the Boston Marathon–something that is a fun event for those who run it and those who watch–then no event is safe. This is the thought that was driving me to give in to the thoughts in my head, to the craving in my mind, to the need for comfort, to the need to be nourished and satiated. I felt helpless as I listened and watched and hoped whoever pulled the guy out of his hiding place in the boat pulled him out by his hair and got in a few face punches before cuffing him and stuffing him into the back of a patrol car (yeah, I’m angry at the situation and feel this is just cause for police brutality–you strike at the U.S. and when we catch you, you will get an ass whipping and a good one). I digress.
My head wanted comfort, it ached and nagged me to put something in my mouth and to keep putting something in my mouth. I knew I could quiet the voice by giving in, but that’s what I always do, that’s how I got to be 436 pounds in the first place. Saturday morning I would weigh. I didn’t want to blow it. Yes, the news on TV was upsetting but there wasn’t anything I could do to change what had happened to those happy citizens of Boston–those people standing closest to the bomb in the bag–happy, chatting, sharing the moment with friends, waiting for friends to run by so they could scream their name and cheer them on, or maybe it was the first time someone had ever ventured down to the race–whatever the reason–I was helpless. But there was something I could do for myself in that moment–not give in to the want to eat.
I sat watching the news for sometime. After the Chechen brother, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, was finally captured, the news ended and the regular TV programs came back on. It was late and now my stomach protested. I did want something to eat. I just needed something to take the edge off so I didn’t go to bed feeling deprived. I ate a slice of diet bread (35 calories multi-grain) and some light smart balance. It was enough. My stomach was satisfied about an hour later I went to bed.