Guilt, Pressure and Betrayal

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Now what?

Finishing the Whole 30 feels a little anti-climactic, to be honest. I’ve reintroduced legumes, cheese and bits of gluten, as well as wine.

Red wine now gives me a splitting headache. Apparently, my sulfite tolerance is low. I can drink white wine, but only in small doses.

I don’t like peanut butter nearly as much as I thought I did. This is shocking to me.

Eating bread makes me feel sluggish. It also put 2 pounds back on me.

I can now eat 2 pieces of thin crust cheese pizza and be totally content. This is a dramatic difference. I even wished I’d stopped after one. Dude.

I cannot have chocolate chip cookies in the house. Hello, my name is Jennifer and I am a cookie addict. I only ate one though. (Okay, two.)

When I ate the cookie(s), my husband looked disappointed. Maybe. I probably created that look in my head. But he’s been going on and on about how proud he is of me, how I have a strength of will that I’ve never had before, how great my ass looks, etc. etc. etc. I know it’s meant to be supportive, but my GOD, the pressure. I feel it all the time now. Last night, I wandered through Target, starving, torturing myself by going down the candy aisle. Not masochism, just wondering if there was a brand of chocolate in their stock that I could eat. The answer is no, by the way.

Anyway, because the candy aisle wasn’t enough torture, I hit the frozen section. I was looking longingly at the frozen burritos when the fat chick that will always live inside of me whispered, “I could really go for a Taco Bell burrito right now.”

That bitch.

But I pictured my husband’s face. The betrayed hope. The head shake that he never, ever does, but that I can see nevertheless. How much of that is me, transferring my own guilt onto him? I honestly do not know.

Instead, I picked up a package of Apple Farms salami, which wasn’t strictly Paleo, but a treat. I ate half of it on the way home.

And today, I’m down a pound. Yay, me.

But I’m still wrestling with my guilt, my feeling of responsibility and need for my husband to be proud of me. Stuffing down the resentment caused by a single look I’m not even sure I read right. My head, it is a bizarre and troubled place sometimes. I’ll work through it, I know. (I think) But for now, it’s one foot in front of the other, trying not to look back at the delicious, indulgent, comfortable place I’ve left.

 

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