There's no shame in admitting defeat.
Admitting defeat does not mean giving up. It means you need to get clever. It means admitting you can't do it on your own and that you need help.
With my weight sitting comfortably in the "clinically obese" zone and with a blood pressure that was giving my GP a heart attack – ah, that is, giving me an imminent heart attack – it was time to do something.
So I joined a slimming club.
The problem with trying to lose weight is not learning about healthy eating. We all know about healthy eating. It's the actually eating healthily bit which was the issue.
I managed to lose ten pounds in five months. Not exactly a stellar performance.
So I admitted defeat. But I wasn't giving up. I engaged a hypnotherapist.
I discovered a few things about my brain and met Trevor.
Our brain is made up of three parts. There's the primitive Lizard part (that's Larry, who doesn't come into this), in charge of the boring but essential stuff like making sure I remember to breathe. There's Trevor, the more evolved cave-man brain, responsible for keeping me safe and there's Emma. You'll recognise Emma, she's the bit which can conceptualise the brain and then write a blog about it. Emma is my "Manager".
Now I would like to be a healthy weight, lead an active lifestyle and have a normal blood pressure. Emma is absolutely on board with this and quite frankly confused about why, when she's told me what to do, I end up raiding the biscuit barrel at midnight and drinking an entire bottle of wine in one sitting (embarrassing to admit – but true).
Emma and I had not realised that Trevor, downstairs in the security office, has been conducting a subtle sabotage.
You see Trevor is a caveman and he's refused to move with the times. Trevor believes there are polar bears and sabre tooth tigers out there and he really wants to keep me safe. Anything new is dangerous. He's also not great on delayed gratification because, for cavemen, food was scarce. And Trevor prefers me fat because he also believes in famine. The next ice age is just round the corner, and I will need all my fat reserves when it hits.
So when Emma implements a new management policy regarding salads, Trevor sends round an email (he's adopted some new things - cat memes on the internet for instance) about doughnuts. And, as he's got access to all the feel-good chemicals in my brain, he puts more emotion into the doughnuts than Emma could possibly put into her salad communication.
But I'm onto him now. I'm recognising his style. I have a big red delete key just for his emails.
So far, Emma and I are winning. The feeling of finally being in control is wonderful. Watch this space get smaller!
A Moodscope member.