I’ve been toying with the idea of going Paleo for a year.
Three weeks ago, my therapist asked me to go Paleo for two weeks — not necessarily because of the health benefits or nutritional benefits, but basically because it would cut off access for me from my preferred binge foods. So, I dutifully complied, including the cheat day she suggested.
Thirteen days in, I decided to weigh myself. Bad idea. After a month of regular gym-going and two weeks of Paleo, I was actually up a fraction of a pound.
I was incredibly angry. I was angry at my body, because it felt like even when I was doing everything “right,” I was still being punished. My therapist asked me to throw away my scale and give it more time. I went off the wagon for four days.
But yesterday I climbed back on a little half-heartedly. Today, I worked really hard at the gym. I’m having fruit and Paleo granola for breakfast.
And I’m contemplating committing to this for a year.
I’ve done a month. I’ve done two weeks. Neither was enough to see big changes or lasting results. It wasn’t enough to truly break my bad habits or make cleaner eating a habit. It wasn’t enough to break me of my after-dinner sweets habit or my afternoon snack habit.
A year might be.
I’m saying a year instead of forever, because forever still hurts. I can’t think about forever without my moms chocolate chip cookies or bread.
But a year is not forever. It’s only 365 days. Anyone can do that.
I’m going to keep mulling it over and talk to my therapist about it on Thursday before I make any sweeping decisions, but it’s feeling right even as it feels insurmountable at the same time.
That’s probably a sign.