163.2. That’s half a pound up from last Wednesday. I’m really not that upset about it because it was a really rough week, Dad-in-the-psychiatric-hospital-wise, and there were many things eaten on the go. Chipotle. Salad Works (where I ordered a BLT, WTF?). Rita’s.
In the middle of the least fun fourth of July I’ve ever had, we took a break from dealing with my father in order to eat roast pork and french fries at Tony Luke’s for lunch. That night, at around 11 pm, I ate a grilled cheese with more French fries and washed it down with two beers.
So really, a half pound gain is not so terrible. I was expecting worse.
My Dad was discharged from the hospital yesterday. I’m hoping to move him in the near future to my neighborhood, where I can try to be more involved with his ongoing care. In one way, that’s going to be a very good thing. But it’s stressful, too. I can barely can take of myself as it is. Clearly though I need to find ways to double down on my efforts even in the midst of a lot of stress.
I haven’t been tracking my food at all. While I am still tracking my alcohol consumption, it’s been more than I would like. Last week, I had 11 drinks. Not terrible, but my goal is 7 or less. I’ve definitely been working on mindfulness. Sometimes I manage to be aware that I’m eating or drinking to chip away at my own anxiety and that it is a terrible method of coping and yet I do it anyway.
I’ve missed a lot of yoga sessions I intended to be at, and I actually lost my fitbit in the chaos of last week. (No worries, though: I have already replaced it. Those devices are addictive and when you lose one, you find yourself thinking, “why bother walking? I won’t get any steps for this. It won’t count!” Or I do at least.)
I have worn the same pair of shorts with a T-shirt every single day for the past two weeks. It feels somehow like one ultralong day. I am really hoping that today we turned some kind of corner with my Dad. I need to get back to some level of self-care.