Oversight.

Since December 2001, when I first decided to lose some of my chub, I have been counting calories. There was a brief six-week foray into Points-counting, but it didn’t last because I am a big, big cheater who cheats. Otherwise, a-calorie counting I have been. I spend part of every day with a calculator; I have the caloric values of dozens and dozens of foods memorized. I’m a calorie savant.

But yesterday, I was struck by how much of my life I spend in relentless self-monitoring. How many notebooks I have filled with detailed information about whatever goes into my mouth. I can’t even keep a damn journal because I don’t have the ability to be consistent, and yet I can drag my little notebook and pen out of my purse after every meal and snack, and write it all down.

It’s worked for me and for that, I’m happy. But now that I’m (supposedly) at a weight where I could do maintenance, do I still need this constant vigilance? I’m afraid to stop counting because then I might gain weight, and once I start slipping back down the slope, I’m not sure I could stop myself.

I’d like to reconnect to my body. I’d like to trust that I know what to eat and when. I’d like to wait until my body says I’m hungry to eat something, instead of planning meals and snacks at certain times to prevent ever feeling actual hunger.

I just hate that I’ve put myself on a permanent diet. Because while I can talk a good game about “getting healthy” and “eating mindfully,” I’m lying. It’s a diet. I count calories because I don’t trust myself to eat normally, because I don’t believe I have the ability to resist “bad” choices without rigid structure and accountability.

I mentioned all this to my mom yesterday and I told her I just wanted to stop writing it all down and try trusting myself for a while. And if I gain a few pounds, so be it.

Her reply? “But you look so good now.”

Yeah.