My food addiction revelation

     So I'm standing in the mirror, just after a shower and getting frustrated at yet another hive-pimple breakout on my cheek. 
     And I have this ah-ha moment that's kind of depressing. I realize I have to admit something. Not just to myself, but to this blog and to anyone who will listen. Because God told me to share. (Read yesterday's entry.) 
     (Side note: It's really a big DANG IT moment, because I don't know about you, but I HATE admitting my weaknesses. Some people call that prideful. It's genetic in my neck of the woods.) 
     I am addicted to food. Sugary food. Chocolate food. Unhealthy food. All food. 
     I have a real problem. Really. I have a really real problem with food. 
     There. It's out. It hurts. 
     Right before my shower, I hate a fourth of a half-gallon of Praire Farms ice cream. It sat in my fridge for well over a week, and nobody ate it. So today in a moment of weakness that was just like all the others I had in the week that I was somehow able to overcome, I succumbed to it. I don't know why this time was different. I certainly was able to ignore that mouth-watering picture of a cow (Just kidding, cows don't make my mouth water. Well, maybe a little) a dozen other times I opened the freezer this week. But today, I ate it. I intended to eat just two bites. You know, because the "experts" say you really only need a couple bites to satisfy a craving. (What do they know?) 
     I bargained with myself. 
     I'll eat just a little more than that. 
     In my mind, I visually carved out a section that would be "acceptable" to eat. The smaller portion on the left side of the container, which was really just a few more bites than the two I intended. Then I decided I would eat from that carton until the computer finally opened a program I was waiting to use. 
     But the computer was so slow. Another bite. Then another. I was eating as slow as the computer was working. So, you can see, it wasn't really my fault I ate it all, because it was the darn computer. The longer I waited for the computer to open the program, the more frustrated I became. The more frustrated I became, the more I justified the food in my hand. 
     It wasn't my fault, after all. It was the stupid computer. 
     Then I went to hide the ice cream container in the trash, which was overflowing. So I stuffed it in the bag, put something bigger over it and took the trash out to the garage. 
     I dusted off my hands — mission covert food addiction accomplished — and hopped in the shower. 
     There's NO DOUBT my complexion is related to the sugar or the dairy,  both of which I can hardly tolerate in large amounts. My reflection tells me a truth I don't want to acknowledge, and it doesn't lie. 
     But here's another truth. I'm normally so much better with food choices. I had been freed from the pain and suffering caused by years of abusive eating more than a year ago thanks to my full-body cellular cleansing and fat-burning replenishment system via Isagenix. 
      Well, I thought I was. 
     I used my pregnancy — not as an excuse, because excuses are excusable. Rather I used my pregnancy to justify something I should not be doing. That carried over in breastfeeding. Don't ask how, but in my mind, it all made sense. Extra calories. Pampering my body, which was suffering the ups and downs — mostly downs — of pregnancy and then caring for a newborn. And the struggles of early breastfeeding. 
     You may be wondering why this is any big deal at all. I mean, is ice cream bad? Most people don't think so in the slightest. 
      The truth is, yes and no. This product is made of ingredients that make me sick. They make everyone sick, if we're honest, but they make me sicker than most people. And I KNOW in my heart that I can satisfy that craving with something healthy. I also KNOW I could have stopped at two bites. I also KNOW I could have recognized the signs a few more bites in that I was emotionally eating. I also KNOW that I was playing games to justified my bad choice. 
     I guess I'm making progress, because I'm seeing it more clearly now, even if in retrospective. I understand what I'm doing. I know it's wrong, and I want to make right choices. I want to make right choices because I've cleansed my body, which helped me in all ways with cravings. I know that a clean body wants what it needs, not what's sitting in the freezer. And I know when my body is alkaline and clean, it functions so much better. Gone is the restlessness, the mental fog and the lack of energy throughout the day. My pain was resolved once I made better choices in my diet. My eating habits made my body function better, and I was much happier. That's right, eating good food (which doesn't include Prairie Farms ice cream, believe it or not!) made me happier. Feed the body, fuel the mind!
     Yet here I was stumbling. I had just told my husband two days earlier I had a food addiction. I admitted that I had bought a Reese's PB cup in the store checkout that day. 
     So what, he said. That doesn't mean you're addicted to food.  
     Bless him. He's so nice. He loves me, and he doesn't want me to feel bad about myself. He never has. So in a way, he helps me justify. I don't want him to help me justify. I want to be free again. 
     I hid the wrapper in a zipper pocket of my purse, I said. 

Evidence of my food addiction can be found tucked away in undisclosed locations. 

     It's not like it was the first time, I said, but just in my head this time. 
     I realized that it's a thing I do. It's a thing I've always done. 
     Sure, there are some people who eat giant stacks of Oreos and 65-ounce sodas out in the open. They may know it's bad or that it's unhealthy. Heck, they may even realize they have a food addiction. They may be struggling. I don't know, because they aren't me. I just know my food addiction is a covert one. It's hard for me to admit. I think the ones who do it openly might have more integrity than me. But let's be honest, a food addiction is dangerous and the struggle is real no matter where the battleground is. 
     Even harder than food addiction, at least for me, is admitting that the food controls me. I allow the food to control me. I'm out of control. 
     I said this to my husband, tears streaming down my face. He made some joke about how he was on his second lunch. He was. But both were relatively healthy. I don't see him binging on ice cream. Ever. 
     Besides, I said. I'm not here to condemn or point out anyone else's eating habits. I am here to say, I have a problem, and I need help. 
     The truth is Isagenix was a tool that helped me overcome the food addiction I wasn't even admitting I had a year ago. Now that I KNOW I have a problem, I'm using the fact that I can't cleanse as an excuse to further justify my bad behavior. 
     I still have some tools. The products I can eat have some qualities to assist me with the addiction, plus I can utilize Rod Hairston's wonderful new coaching program for a healthy mind and body. (I'm in heaven about this addition to a company that already stands for integrity and completeness in everything it does!) And I still and always have the power of prayer. Now, I can add to my tools that I have knowledge, which I've been told is power. (Ha! See how I did that there?)
     Much as I hated admitting I'm addicted to food, God — in his infinite wisdom — blessed me with a girl's writing yesterday to confirm that I am SUPPOSED to share this with you. Isabelle Loux has written about her struggles with anxiety and depression, writing I'm blessed that she's allowing to be published in Mighty Strong Girls. But the truth is, her perspective has blessed me as the writing of so many girls in this ministry has! 
     They constantly remind me that we don't get help in the dark. We MUST bring our struggles into the light. There, we find hope, mercy, Jesus, forgiveness and community. We discover we aren't alone, and mostly importantly, we help one another. 
     If this resonates with you, then join me, please. Help me be accountable, and I'll help you. Let's live this struggle out — in the light. Let this post be the start of a conversation, and let's get really real with one another!

Overcoming my late-in-life pregnancy fears

     So, I'm probably about to have blog-rrhea. There was so much I wanted to write while pregnant, and the truth is...I was terrified to put my thoughts into writing during those months. 
     It was one of the most fearful seasons of my life.
     Fear...
     ...I would lose the baby. 
     ...something serious was wrong with the baby. 
     ...of our home sale falling apart. 
     ...that putting my kids back in public school was the wrong decision. 
     ...we wouldn't be able to afford another child. 
     ...of every single symptomatic issue I had in pregnancy. (Yes, I spent a lot of time on Google. Then I admitted I had a problem, promised to stay off the Internet and relapsed after about 24 hours. I realize I have issues!)
     ...that if I talked about any of this, something dreadful would happen. 
     ...I would gain too much weight, not be able to lose the weight after the pregnancy.
     ...I would succumb to food addictions.  
     ...of giving birth naturally, which I was trying to commit myself to doing but even my efforts left me doubting I could. 
     ...God would hate me or punish me for so many fears and doubts. 
      ...of my fears. (My anxiety disorder seemed so under control until this....all of this. It was overwhelming!)
     So I didn't write them. Or speak them. 
     But they haunted me. 
     ...at every doctor's appointment. 
     ...with every snide comment about my age in pregnancy. 
     ...in every headline about a stillbirth or studies about the dangers of pregnancy "late in life." 
     ...during the day and into the night. 
     ...as I listened to a horrendous podcast about depression in pregnancy (1 in 3 women suffer, almost always in silence) and wondered if it was me the author was describing. 
     ...with all the insomnia bouts that returned with a vengeance in my third trimester. 
     I was so glad God was speaking to me during this time and reassuring me. But me, in Amy-the-persistent-worrier fashion, continued to doubt and question. For every worry or fear, I grasped onto the one person who could bring me peace and reassurance. I had to keep going back to Him time and time again because I had such a restless spirit. I think He probably had me right where He wanted me. But I couldn't help shake my feelings of inadequate faith. It was touch and go. 
     I wish I could say that I had a great support network. I definitely had friends who were checking in on me and a husband who was there to listen to all my insecurities. 
     But for every friend who was supportive, there were three people who were negative. Some were silently protesting. Others whispered behind my back. I felt every sting. We received comments like, "How could you be so stupid (to get pregnant at your age)?" "Do you know how this happens?" and my all-time favorite said right to my face, "You're f----ed." 
     Many of these comments came from so-called friends. 
     It was so hard to share our news, not knowing what the reaction would be from a world where the attitudes about a fetus fall more along the lines of a "clump of cells," rather than my precious daughter, a life, a creation of God's. 
     An older woman having a baby seemed foolish. Heck, even I was skeptical in the beginning. It certainly wasn't our plan. 
     But it was our prayer. It was just a prayer from seven years prior...long forgotten. 
     At least we'd forgotten. 
     But someone hadn't. That one person — all holy and almighty — didn't forget the cries of my heart. And deep down, I trusted His timing. He said no to my prayer then. But He said yes to my prayer in this chapter. 
     So I trusted in Him, while so many others disappointed. 
     Faith. But a shaky, insecure, immature faith, to be sure. 
     Still, a glorious story unfolded in spite of my fears when my beautiful baby entered the world. 

Our sweet daughter, born in God's timing as His plan unfolds for our lives.

     She came naturally. But not without trouble. Her positioning was wrong. Labor, which I thought would be fast and not nearly as painful for all my preparation, didn't deliver on those promises. 
     But I was reminded that God doesn't promise life will be easy. He simply promises He will walk through it with us. 
     The birthing plan I had, the techniques I had practiced and prayed upon did not work out like I had hoped. But the scriptures I had written out on notecards gave me the hope and reassurance I need. Just as His word and my relationship with Him carried me through each day of the pregnancy. 
     Indeed, I was never alone. And I knew, no matter what happened to me or the baby, He would help me through it. After all, this was His plan, unfolding in His timing in answer to a deep prayer of my heart. 

The long awaited sonogram didn't provide the answers we were hoping for!

      I wasn't prepared for this. 
     Well, maybe a little. 
     A week before I stood staring with my jaw drooping to the floor, positive pregnancy test in hand, we finally made a decision to move forward with adoption. In an all-new way. All four of us decided we were equipped to handle a baby. We could logistically do it. We were mentally and emotionally prepared. We would go through classes and become a foster family to a newborn. It was settled. 
     And then the unthinkable happened. Six weeks shy of my 41st birthday I discovered that the two missed periods weren't symptomatic of pre-menapause. Or some fluke.
     Immediately, my doctor sprung into action. Blood test in the next three hours. Immediate appointment. She even came in at 8 a.m. on the first morning of her week off to see me. 
     Because. Because of my age, I am HIGH RISK. 
     Frankly, it seemed like more hype than necessary. I just ran a 10-mile race — seven more miles than I'd ever ran consecutively before 2014. I was down 22 pounds and feeling better than I did when I was in my 20s! I felt WAY more healthy than I did in my early pregnancies with the other two. 
     Didn't matter. Statistically speaking, I have a higher rate of complications. So does the baby. 
     Speaking of the baby's risks, I had taken prednisone in early December for a freaky outbreak of poison oak or ivy that was all over my arm and face. It was not a super high dose, but it wasn't a low dose either. 
     My doctor looked at the dates and decided rather than send me to a neonatal specialist, she would check closely for birth defects at our sonogram at 20 weeks. Specifically she mentioned mid-line birth defects of the heart, spine and possible cleft lip/palate. 
     That day came on Monday, and I was certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that God was going to show up and the results would indicate what a perfect baby I was carrying. That He would give me peace and comfort that the medicine hadn't done damage. 
     I should have known better. 
     She was wiggly and uncooperative. She spun to put her back to the "camera" and there were no good images to be had of her heart, lower spine or face. Everything else they could see just fine, especially the fact that she is a SHE. Except the places where we wanted reassurance. 
     I was angry. Because a few weeks earlier I had read a study that sonogram technology has been linked to autism/ADHD/neurological issues. I decided on the spot that we wouldn't do another one. So God HAD to show up. Right? Ugh! So why had he abandoned me?
     We had a wonderful chat with our doctor, who was honest and admitted there are risks doing another sonogram. She didn't do all the recommended sonograms on her own pregnancy. She supported our decision after she had already told us that everything they could see on the images suggested that this baby is very, very healthy. So am I and so is the pregnancy. 
     Dan and I have peace in that if there is a defect, we live in a community with the very best doctors and medical resources. Our girl will be fine. We will be fine. Even if everything isn't perfect. 
     Life is really never perfect anyhow. It's a little broken. And a little messy. And a little unpredictable. And a lot challenging. 
     Which is why we (especially me!) NEED God. That's where I should have known better. Each time I make a step of faith, I find myself in an imperfect spot. In other words, just because I trusted God and He helped me through a situation doesn't mean He's done with me. 
     Instead, there's another step I must take. Sometimes a bigger one or a harder one than the last. It's simple really. If I didn't need Him, I might let go. But He isn't letting me. This sonogram result is really a gift, reminding me that no matter how smart technology is and no matter how much I think I can handle something on my own, I'm really hopeless and helpless without Him by my side. 
     As I worked through my anger with Him for not providing this reassurance, this answer to prayer, I realized sometimes He's answering even bigger prayers of ours. I would never want to be estranged from Him, especially in my hardest hours. Especially as I continue to be bombarded with information — like statistics about stillborn babies born to older moms — and people's insane opinions that we're too old (and consequently stupid) to "let" this happen. (For the record, we had two types of infertility but just went on a super foods diet and cleanse with an amazing company!) 
     I have a confession to make, and it's hard for me to make it. Because it shows how vulnerable and untrusting and hard-hearted I am. These comments and stories and statistics have made me detached. Fear of losing the baby has made me less engaged in this pregnancy. Less excited. Less hopeful. Sadly, I realized today that a detached mom is never a good mom. 
     A baby is ALWAYS a blessing. I realized if the baby doesn't live a day outside the womb, it's still my job (and my greatest privilege) to be the best mom I can be until the point that I'm no longer a mom to this girl or my other children. 
     So I made a decision that I will begin bonding with this sweet, active girl right now. Just like my amazing son, who has been reading stories and books to the baby since before she could read. Yes, I think I will have faith like his. Faith like a child. 

Chasing a gold standard

     I will never forget the time my husband spilled breast milk on the kitchen counter. Ever. 
     Because I cried. And it wasn't just because of my hormones. Being a first-time mom was the most stressful thing that ever happened to me. Despite the plethora of books I had read, classes I had taken and the two college degrees I had, I was fully unprepared. Entirely. Completely. 
     There was one really good thing I knew I could give my daughter, and that was breast milk. I had done my research, and I knew this was the gold standard in baby nutrition. Good for the body and for the brain. 
      I don't know what it was (hmmmm....I don't know, possibly the fact that I was stressed out as a new mom!) but my breast milk production was awful. After the first three months, it was inadequate, and I had to supplement. 
     Still, I persisted. I pumped a ridiculous three times a day at work, plus one side on the drive there and one on the drive home. I took supplements, ate oatmeal and drank tons of water. All this for about four to six total ounces daily. A baby this age takes about 30-40 ounces in a 24-hour period. Looking back, I think I must have been insane to invest all that work for so little. But I was trying to make the best decision with the information I had available to me. I wanted to do what was best for my baby.
     And that's why I cried when my husband dumped over the milk. It represented a huge investment. It was liquid gold all over the counter top that was no unusable! I was crushed! 
     I've been thinking, studying and praying a lot about nutrition lately. I'm hardly an expert, but for some reason when this story came to mind, it reminded me that the best stuff for us isn't always the easiest stuff to come by!  We have to work at it, and even then, we have to study and learn more about it. I had to understand how to adapt my diet to better provide for my baby. I wasn't equipped with this knowledge. It was a process of learning.
     We have simplified food growth to the point where it's all about volume and yield. What was done with the intentions of feeding more with less available space hasn't come with complications, criticisms, controversy and even corruption. What has become less common is man planting seeds and raising his own food or at the very least, knowing exactly where his food came from and how it was grown, processed and packaged. We have sacrificed nurturing in lieu of "faster" and "more." 
     And that's the so-called "natural" food we raise -- produce, meats and poultry, and dairy. Then there's all the fast-food nonsense and packaged goodies, filled with every kind of poison imaginable. Sugar, salt, artificial colors and flavors. Additives intended for yoga mats, additives that happen to be highly addictive. 
     I have spent most of my life eating healthy — comparatively. You know, compared to the majority of people. Not that I like to be in the habit of comparisons, but that's what I was doing. And I felt good about it. Therein lies the BIG PROBLEM with comparisons. Just because I was eating good compared to a statistic did not mean I was eating good for me. I still bought crappy food into my house "for the kids" and then ate it when I knew I shouldn't. I still ate way out of proportion, and I still ate many packaged foods despite homemade dinners every night.
     However, I've been learning lately that is is not good enough. I know better, and I can do better. I HAVE to do better. My body is unhappy; it's raging against the poor quality food I've been dumping in it the last four decades. I've fought "intestinal issues" that cannot firmly be diagnosed for seven years. I have raging endometriosis, migraines, sinus issues and fibromyaligia. The fact that I can even operate most days is miraculous. I've been a walking, talking emotional/mental/spiritual/physical time bomb. I needed a wake-up call. 
      I'm finally listening. 
     I want the spilled milk. I want the good stuff. I want the gold standard of nutrition that fosters mental clarity, stabilizes emotional moodiness, improves my physical well-being and opens me up spiritually. I don't know exactly what that is, so I'm starting with what I do know, which is a lot. I will do the best I can with what I know, committing myself to learning more as I go and forgiving myself for messing up along the way. 
     I'm not an expert. I don't understand everything there is to food. Heck, just when I think I know something, I hear a report that contradicts my knowledge. 
     But I won't be discouraged by that. I will persist. I will grow some of what I can, buy what I know to be the best when I can afford it, eat what's best for me as often as I can and then pray that God will meet me there. 
     It's not a destination. It's a journey of whole health. I will need grace. I will need encouragement. I will need wisdom. Therefore, I will need Jesus. So He will be right at the heart of this new thing.