About a month ago, I was in bed one night, watching a Hulu show on the laptop. My husband goes to bed really early, but can sleep through a sonic boom, so something that really blesses him is if I come to bed with him, even if I watch a Hulu show or two. Works for us :)
So, I had to get up and use the restroom. When I was up, the thought of, "I'm going to eat." hit me. It felt like the decision was already made, like I had to do it.
I went into the kitchen and ate a tiny bite of gluten free brownie that I had made for my husband's birthday celebration. That was really good, so I just finished the brownie. Then I drank a few swigs of milk (big no-no; I'm supposed to always wait at least 45 minutes after eating to drink anything. That's one of the biggest rules for post-op RNY gastric bypass patients). I went back to the bedroom, sure that I was done.
I told myself I was fine. I mean, when everyone else ate brownie-ice cream-fudge sundaes I wisely opted to eat some protein-filled eggs. And when I did eat the brownie it was 1/16th, a serving size, and I tracked the calories in my SparkPeople iPhone app. This wasn't a problem. I didn't have a problem. I was fine, fine fine.
Lie, lie, lie.
After only a few minutes, as if in a trance, I got back up. I ate 3 bites of some leftover scrambled eggs that were set aside for Jason's breakfast the next day. Then I opened the cupboard, lustful eyes roaming for something to shove in my face. I saw a bag of tortilla chips someone had left at our place the week before after community group and so I ate about five chips.
The weird thing is I remember standing there, blogging about it in my head, writing in past tense about how good the food felt going down my throat. Like I said, in my heart it was like this had to happen because it had already happened.
By the time I had eaten the tortilla chips, it had been about 20 minutes since I'd consumed the initial brownie and milk and I began to feel sick. My stomach pouch post-surgery is very small and can't handle eating like I had, especially with the drinking & eating combo. And then, once again, as though it were already a past event, I decided that I had to throw up.
I told myself that it was because I would get sick and throw up anyway (which has happened since surgery), and that I was just speeding the inevitable along. I stood there, at the kitchen sink, finger down my throat, certain that I was still "fine".
Praise God, he woke me up.
|Being in denial- asleep to my sin- led me|
here, to 376 pounds and gastric bypass
surgery. [picture is of me about an hour
post-op, looking eerily dead, in my opinion]
God convicted me right there that my attempt to purge, to atone for my sin and avoid the consequences all at once, was horribly sinful. My excuses were crap. First, I chose to believe that I had to eat, refused to prayerfully ask the Holy Spirit if I should eat, and then I tried to control and manage my sin by first lying to myself about it by blaming my body and then refusing to see my real motive of not wanting to be fat but wanting to have food and trying to have both things but not desire Jesus in there anywhere. Well, other than to broadcast the victories.
A Jesus who is only good when he's delivering me from the sin that I hate- being fat, addicted to food, and lazy- but who isn't allowed to be God when I am in the midst of struggle, one whom I ignore when I'm in the midst of wanting what I want because I want it, and wanting it on my terms isn't the Jesus of the Bible. He's an idol, a deaf and dumb image I create with my own hands, a Golden Calf I praise when I get what I want but cast back into the fire so I can mold a new image when I don't.
So where did I go from there? Certainly, I wouldn't be writing this if something miraculous didn't happen when that moment at the sink transpired. I'll tell you about it... next Monday in the last post of this five part mini-series!