Reflections on a Lifetime of Food Battles

I consider myself a hard-core low-carb dieter. Eight years ago I dropped 70 pounds feasting on bacon and cheese and eggs and never feeling the slightest bit of nostalgia for carbs of any kind. Except tortilla chips. And Oreos. Oreos are my kryptonite.



It was the only time in my life that weight loss was effortless. I didn't even exercise. The biology was something completely opposite of every other diet I'd tried. My body fell for it.

Once.

The only other time I'd ever lost a significant amount of weight was in college. I was going through emotional struggles and just decided to put my head down and focus on myself. Weight Watchers was a program I'd tried before, but my Mom's best friend had just dropped 100 pounds on it. I had to lose around 40, so I figured if she could do it, I could do it. Ultimately, I lost about 25 and I felt terrific. But my college diet of pizza and beer soon replaced my carefully measured carrots and crisp greens and within a year, the weight was back, PLUS 10 pounds.

A few years later I was married and my new husband and I loved to cook together. We were young and had lots of young couple friends. On a weekly basis there was a crowd of people at our house and a huge dinner on the table. Weight started to creep on to both of us. I was my heaviest of all time, about 200 pounds, when I got pregnant with my son. I was lucky with pregnancy and barely gained anything. I had an 8 pound baby and had only gained 16 pounds to begin with. I left the hospital down 22. Using this as a kickstart and knowing I was staying home with my son, I was determined to keep it off. And I did for a little while.

When baby two came along a few years later, I was back where I started before my son, plus 5 pounds. But once again, I came out of the hospital with a net loss of about 5 pounds. But this time, with two kids under the age of 4, life got in the way of me taking care of me. Combined with what had become a stessed and unhappy marriage, I started to balloon.

I remember the last fat picture taken of me. At Christmas, 2002. I was squeezed into a size 18 stretch jeans. And I mean squeezed. I could barely breathe. I had on a winter sweater that wasn't quite heavy enough to hid my belly rolls. My face was round, I couldn't wear my wedding rings. I hadn't weighed in three years...because I didn't want to know.

When Atkins found me, I forced myself on the scales. I was at 235. I had no idea things had gotten that out of control.