It’s hard to change your lifestyle when you are alone.

When my mom had her stomach surgery, she was in the hospital for two months, she was on ventilator for a large portion of that time. In that span of time she had gone through the withdrawal of her nicotine addiction and had been without a cigarette.

When she was released into my sister’s care (excellent care) she was without cigarettes. I cannot remember how long she stayed with my sister. But she eventually decided that she was healed enough and knew how to take care of herself and her newfound circumstances, and was ready to go back to the home she shared with my dad.

But when she returned, neither my father nor my brother, who both lived with her, nor my other brother, stopped smoking around her. My sister and I were smart enough to never pick up that habit. But the rest didn’t care enough not to smoke around her.

She was in her late 50s, and it would have done her a service to neglect to partake. I’m sure pointing this out to them now would mean nothing to them. But had they done so, she might have stopped for good.

However, one day, she decided that she would stop at a gas station, and buy her first pack of cigarettes in months.

She tired to hide it but we knew.

Had her lifestyle change been important to everyone the same way it was to her and myself and my sister, she might have had better success. Her support system could have been larger, so to speak.

Of course a lot of it has to with the individual’s willingness to stick to the change. But it helps having people around you who are right there with you. It’s easier to do things together than it is alone.

There’s a point to my rambling.

I’ve been doing this “Spite Diet” thing for one month. I’ve only lost 6 pounds. I’ve weighed myself three times. I’ve not gained it back. But I’ve only lost 6 pounds.

I tried to go to the gym but couldn’t get in.

I try to eat healthy and meal prep.

The other night I cooked some diced chicken and quinoa. It was delicious and I wanted to save the rest for lunch the next day. I rested for a while after my meal and returned to the kitchen to package up my leftovers, and it appeared I’d left less chicken than I thought.

My first thought was, “oh, maybe I didn’t just take half? Or “did I maybe get seconds without realizing?” As if my eating disorder (not claiming to have an eating disorder here) is so bad I black out while eating.

Now, I knew my husband had made his own dinner. I saw the cooking paraphernalia on the stovetop. He wouldn’t have ate some of my chicken as well as what the hell ever he made for himself, would be?

Oh, but he would. “Honey, did you eat some of my chicken?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I was going to save that for my lunch tomorrow.”

“Oh, sorry.”

That’s it. Oh, sorry. That’s all.

Tonight, I had my dinner and was going to make a quick wrap for lunch at work tomorrow. I was thinking about that wrap all day. The last one was so good.

It’s a whole wheat tortilla, a serving size is good deli turkey, a single slice of Swiss, some spinach, a little Mayo, and if I was feeling frisky a thin slice of tomato (too much makes it soggy). I would pair it with veggie straws and some pickles.

I walk into the kitchen and see, sitting on the counter, my turkey. Now, last I left it there were enough for two wraps. There was barely enough for one. I could have made it work.

But, it was room temp. Now, one could assume that had it not been out that long, it might have been fine. But one does not know what I know, which is that my husband and child left the house around (you know what I don’t know what time) before noon. Eight hours before I went to make my lunch.

I’m a dumbass. But I’m not so much of a dumbass as to not know that eating eight hour old counter lunch meat would make a good time not. I mean, I might lose some weight afterward, but that’s not how I want to do it. Or how I want to die.

So, when he walked into the room, I asked him, “honey, is that my good Turkey?”

“What turkey?”

I point. “That room temperature Turkey over there.”

“Yes. The Kid wanted a sandwich. Sorry.”

At this point I really just shut out the universe. pretty sure I said, “it’s fine” at least ten times.

He asked me if I wanted him to go get more. It was after 8pm at this point. No, it’s fine. Are you sure. It’s fine.

He went to his room was gone for a few minutes, and came out dressed for public (meaning not shorts) and said, “I’ll be back.”

Where you going? To get Turkey. I said it’s fine. Are you sure? It’s fine. I’ll figure out something else or I’ll buy lunch. It’s fine.

You know, I understand the kid was hungry. I understand that even I have forgotten to put stuff back in the refrigerator (RIP giant bag of frozen broccoli). We all do forgetful things, and we also have to feed the children.

But he ate my chicken, when he had or was making his own dinner. He’s not trying to lose weight or eat healthier (going all day and not having anything but off brand slim fast and Quaker chewy bars isn’t healthy either).

I’m alone in this. I’m doing it by myself. Just me and a stupid app that reminds me that even if I think the food I’m making is healthy, it is in fact not. Because of all 9,000 things that have to be taken into account.

If I didn’t just THOROUGHLY LOVE FOOD, if my emotions and eating were not lovers who slow danced from dawn to dark, if I didn’t crave the most delicious gawd awful unhealthy delicacies, then losing weight would be a cakewalk.

But two days ago I had Mexican food, real Mexican food, because I was having a stressful day and craved that polo bandito, and a large Pepsi. Tonight I had Taco Bell. And you know what, the first thing I’m gonna eat when I finally give up the charade of this “Spite Diet” is most of a little Caesar’s hot and ready pepperoni pizza. And I’m going to have some kind of enormous delectable ice cream dessert.

That six pounds I lost two weeks ago, well it’ll be back. Like Arnold Swartzenegger in that terminator movie. Even if I don’t quit, even if I improve my eating, and change my lifestyle completely. Because I’m not made for success. I’m built for failure. Like a structurally unsound tower made from off brand Lego bricks from the reject bin.

Why am I even doing this? To live longer? For my pants for fit better? To be able to work an eight hour shift without wanting to remove my own feet?

None of those things. Who wants to live a long life in this world? most of mg pants fall off me right now anyway, losing weight will make it worse. And the damage is already done to my feet and ankles.

No, I started this last month to prove to a doctor I see once a year that I can lose weight without taking an injectable diabetes once a month. I did it to spite that doctor. To prove her wrong. And all I’m getting out of it is depression and cravings for food I can’t have.

I’m not a happy person anyway, and this is not helping.

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