If you remember back late last year, I was excited about my no pressure diet and was over the moon with the result of my will power. I was staying away from the scales but when I was in the mood I was impressed with the weight lost having set no goal.
I was worried with Christmas approaching it was always a killer for me but I went into last Christmas determined not to revert to my old self and stuff my face. So I jumped on the scales a couple of days before Christmas Day and then in the New Year took to the scales for sentencing I thought I may have been a touch naughty. I was more than surprised when I lost weight, me losing weight over Christmas is unheard of not a great loss but thought to myself I could have crack the secret of dieting.
That January I was more than happy but towards the end of the month something must have happen which I have no idea what but I slipped off course. Even after a weigh-in and a weight rise, I put it down to a blip, stupid bastard, and a blip I put in the drawer.
I should have seen the old Pete emerging! My inability to walk passed a packet of chicken crisps around the local shop and my fetish for cold Burton pasties emerging from an occasional treat to daily what was I thinking. Before passing judgement on me this battle is now over 40 years old, a battle I never won. I can put my finger on when and why it all began. In 1978, I have what you could call a self-prescribe break down later confirmed by the doctor whose only contribution to the discussion was to ‘man up’ very helpful.
My state of depression became entwined with food and eating so if a bout of depression hits me I headed straight to the trough with my plate piled high with cheap processed food.
It was down to being unemployed, jobless, and lack of a job while all my friends just seem to walk into work. It got to the point I became paranoid and after a trip to sign on one Thursday morning I returned home and there was no one to hang around with as everyone was working. So I retreated to my bedroom and avoiding friends for almost a year. During that time, I formed a love hate relationship with food using it as some kind of comfit if I was feeling depressed. Plates of chips after mid-night was a treat with trips to the fish shop sometimes twice a day and trips to the local sandwich shops and Mum was still feeding me.
When I emerged from my state of exile unlike materialising like a butterfly into the sunlight, I emerged like a fatter bastard with enough problems to fill a book. I was chronically depressed (official now) with a food problem and with the job of trying to reconnecting to my friends.
After leaving my bedroom prison, I was still eating but not as much, I was lucky I couldn’t drive and my only means of getting around was my bike. I was not the same Peter coming out into the world I had issues, I was still unemployed and while living very much on my own I devolved a hate of crowded places one of my main problems today but that is a whole other story. I was finding it difficult reconnecting with my friends while I had taken a step or two backwards they had move forward. I was also annoyed by the fact know one seemed to have missed me has know one run up to me asking, “Where have you been”. It was then when I realised during my self-imposed exile no one called at the house seeking me out, why.
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