I was making dinner on a quick deadline last Thurs and it was supposed to be a lovely fresh salad from the farmer's market and home-made crostini (sliced french bread with balsamic-soaked roasted red pepper and parmesan) broiled to perfection. Miss E, of course, needed a completely separate dinner. So in all the rush, the crostini (the last of the red peppers) burned. And although I had just been to the farmer's market, aside from lettuce there was nothing in my veggie bin to throw into a quick salad (the other veggies requiring cooking time I didn't have). When I went to look for a cucumber, they were all disgusting, rotted messes. And my unused tzatziki tub (no good without the cucumbers) fell on the kitchen floor and broke open, spewing dill and yogurt about.
I slid the tray of blackened whatevers into the wastebasket and surveyed a plate of...well, lettuce. And burst into tears. The Dude manfully likes lettuce and ate his as is. I tossed mine back into the bag of greens and returned it to the fridge. I then promptly treated my small family to a hysterical, tearful, account of how little respect they had for all I do each and every day for them, to the point that I don't even get time to wash my hair some days, let alone write.
At which point, Miss E suggested that we all stop yelling at each other and calm down. And offered to do her own dressing and clothing choices in the morning so that I wouldn't have to continue to do them for her. And promised not to dive back under her covers when I said it was time to get up. Which promise she has pretty much kept for the past week, on school days at least.
And the Dude just looked long-suffering, his brows pulled together painfully as he tried not to respond, but I'm sure he thought I was unjustified in my tirade, what parts were directed at him. And he is, indeed, long-suffering. Coming up on 32 years of long-suffering, 26 of it married. (But he's in trouble, because he forgot the first of two wedding anniversaries was yesterday.)
And later, when I checked my calendar, I was not amused. If, indeed, my chemical balance was off in its way, then I was looking at 21 days, not the normal 28. Sheesh. No wonder women are happy to become crones. Between a collapsing cycle and increased hormonal rampage, crone is something I welcome with open arms. Long for, even. And yesterday, I was proved correct. While I am happy to be able to say the outburst was somewhat out of my control, I am not a happy camper about the 21 days part. ARGH! It depressed me so much last Thurs that I just curled up on the Dude's chest that night for comfort. Which comfort was freely offered. Long-suffering, as I said. (But did I mention the forgotten anniversary?)
But that one outburst and my presumption that it was an 'out of body' moment (or a very in-body one) helped. On Saturday, the 29th, I weighed in and took my lumps. And promised to eat my 26 points and to write down what I ate. A promise I made only to myself. The sessions don't do much for me anymore. And I signed up for a monthly pass, which I'm not required to do. I only have to go once a month to maintain my status, but that hasn't exactly been working as I slide the Detecto scale pointer more and more to the right. (It is now moving to the left, as it should.)
Four days done of eating correctly. Amazing that the system works. It does, but you have to get your head into it properly, agree to your deepest self that this works. And stick to it. If I stuck for 3 years, I can stick again.
And since I also sent off a story, that's another small success at the end of this crazy month of elephants in my living room.
1) saw chemical imbalance for what it was and avoided additional outbursts
2) took charge of food again. Will not use food as stress-relief or whatever I'm using it for
3) sent story off to market that responds quickly
4) last two tax clients have either scheduled their meeting or delivered the goods (due date of 15th)
There's this crack in my windshield that needs to be taken care of and my inspection sticker expired on Sunday, but that's minor compared to the above that has been accomplished.