Foods to eat while trying to lose weight : Boiled egg whites calories.
Tired of Trying to Measure Up: Getting Free from the Demands, Expectations, and Intimidation of Well-Meaning People
Tired Of Trying To Measure Up is written for Christians who live under a deeply ingrained code of written and unwritten expectations and rules that shame them and drain them of spiritual strength. Here are some tell-tale signs: --Always struggling spiritually, but never feeling anything but tiredness. >--Always felling guilty--nothing is ever "good enough."--Rest is impossible--even when it's needed. --Performance expectations prove you'll never "measure up." --The Christian life has ceased to be a joy. If those signs match your experience, this book is for you. The author is not trying to get you to behave in a "Christian" manner. If trying hard were the key to the victorious Christian life, you'd probably be in the hall of fame by now, don't you think? This is a message to help you unmask the lies that keep you on a works-righteousness treadmill, to help you discover the liberation of the gospel of grace in Jesus Christ and the rest that comes through what Christ has done on the cross. When there's more emphasis on doing right than knowing God and His grace, this book points the way to freedom.79% (5)
272/365: The Prison
She grew up wondering where her dad was. Ever since she could remember, she couldn't remember his presence. And at that point between sadness and joy she realized there was something not quite right with the world. When she was nine years old, her mom got married. And there was an excitement and a newness. But she realized there was something wrong. This man wasn't who she thought he had been. And then she thought... she must be wrong. So she tried hard to please him. She never could. She had always been a picky eater - a skinny girl with "a bony butt" her mother would say. "You eat like a bird." This man didn't like that. He demanded change. Every night, he would serve up her plate - with much more than a ten year old really needs. And then he would force her to eat it all. it really didn't take much effort on his part. He was scary. So she learned to stuff herself. She learned to scarf food down. To shovel it in. She watched as he criticized her mom, and controlled the food that she ate to make her lose weight. And she watched her mom suffer. She watched her mom eat whatever she could get her hands on whenever he wasn't looking. And she learned it too. Food was safe. It was good. And it was just about the only right thing in her world. She grew up at age eleven. Whenever she looked in the mirror, she saw a blob. she felt ugly and fat and disgusting in every way. She wasn't. It started a vicious cycle. It ate at her from the inside. She began eating at every opportunity and for every reason - whether she was hungry or not. She steadily gained weight, and steadily her self esteem, her body image, and the way she viewed the world slipped down-hill. And today she is the same. But she is different. Because now she knows. Its not her fault. The she... is me. Its called compulsive overeating. The thing with it is that people say "you should just go on a diet." or "Well, with a little exercise, you'll be fine." or "all you have to do is..." and the thing is that with compulsive overeating, there's something much deeper in play. dieting is exponentially harder than with people who don't suffer from the disorder because it's psychological. there are deep emotions tied to it. and I've never been able to explain - or even figure out for myself - why I've never in my life been able to lose weight, why I can't diet. There's something in my brain that goes on that makes it nearly impossible to continue with a diet, to follow it through. food... makes me feel good while i'm eating it. but i eat it to the point that my stomach hurts from eating too much. i have no self control over it. and then afterwards i suffer from this horrible guilt. its a painful cycle. it's a prison. flickr, this is hard for me. this is hard to share with people because i've only now realized i suffer from this and it hurts. its painful to think about. to admit that i hate myself, that i hate my body. it hurts to admit that when i look in the mirror, all i see is this disgusting fat thing that can't get control of her life. when i look at this picture, i see my fat. that is all i see. and that hurts. please don't misconstrue the purpose of this photo or the description. you might wonder why the heck i'm sharing this with people i don't know. the truth is, i looked backwards at my 365 and i'm disappointed in myself. because my photos aren't honest. they aren't the real me. they're distant. i've been hiding. and this is why. and i'm sorry. i'm sorry i haven't been putting all i can into this project. i'm sorry it's been a halfhearted push of a button. and this photo is an attempt at change. and attempt at honesty. i don't know what else to say about this, except... if you're out there, suffering from something, thinking you're all alone... you're not. we all suffer from something. but God doesn't make ugly things. that's all i can say for now.RIP Sebastian: 1991 – 2010
Bassie came to us in the rain on a dark winter night; she left us in the rain on a dreary spring afternoon. The sun burst through the clouds just as we left the veterinarian's office. Like Bassie, it rallied against every expectation. Bassie was the last of the Colony Cats. We rescued three when we lived at Colony by the Mall, though it's probably more accurate to say Bassie adopted us. She may have been one of a half dozen beggars on our patio, but she wasn't lost in the furry shuffle. Wary of attention and loathsome of cuddling, she nevertheless demanded food. When we decided to take her in, most of our friends (and, thankfully, our landlord) weren't aware of her existence. She preferred to be under things, earning her the nickname "The Rare and Elusive Crocobassie." As for her proper name, she got stuck with it because, well: I'm a Duranie. Other Duranies will understand why black cats must be named Sebastian. By the time she let us close enough to scope out her nethers, the name wasn't changing, though it ultimately got abbreviated to better align to her size. Bassie was always a little too thin, a little too close to running out of lives. Still, she managed to outlive not only the other Colony Cats, but also the vet's expectations. He pronounced her on her 9th life so many times that declaring her on her 10th was selling her short. She was, without a doubt, the strangest cat we've owned. She demanded she be given treats every morning, one by one, by hand. She was attracted to string instruments and would come into the room, sometimes even singing along as I played. She didn't meow; she creaked. She headbutted to show affection. It was remarkable how something so tiny could still deliver a solid crack on the noggin. As she got older, she became more sociable, sitting in the window, hanging out on the sofa while we watched television (it was surely a coincidence that we frequently ate dinner on said sofa). Like her will, her stomach was made of iron. In the name of helping her gain weight, the vet declared we could feed her anything she'd eat. She stayed alive long enough to try everything at least once. She saw no boundary between our plate and her stomach. And though she was predictably frantic for crab, she'd also demolish a blueberry donut like it was the last nom on Earth. In the end, it was not age, or even Basement Cat, that took her. It was cat food. All three of the Colony Cats ate the melamine-tainted food. Ironically, the food would never have been in their diets had we not been trying to keep Bassie's weight up. We were firm believers in a dry diet, but we started feeding her bits of wet kitten food for the fat and extra moisture (and, as all cat owners will tell you, that meant the other cats were eating it, too). Our dry brand was not recalled. Not every pet affected by the recall went into immediate renal failure. Some, like Bassie, fought and fought. Bassie took it to Eleven.
From the author of The Defiant Child comes the first book to connect From the author of the groundbreaking The Defiant Child comes the first book to connect explosive behavior—when kids go from Jekyll to Hyde and back in the blink of an eye—with its underlying causesSimilar posts:
Does your hitting, kicking, screaming child explode with so little provocation that you can't help but wonder if he’s possessed? Are his extreme tantrums becoming the stuff of playground legend? And are you about to lose your job because his daycare or school repeatedly asks you to pick him up early?
Dr. Douglas Riley’s ear-to-the-ground insights will give much-needed help to desperate parents who have one overriding question: Why does my child act like this? This compassionate yet no-nonsense therapist explains that explosive behavior is the mere tip of the iceberg. Instead of using a one-size-fits-all strategy, Dr. Riley identifies the eleven most common causes of explosions and accordingly tailors his treatment strategies to address the underlying cause of the behavior.
What Your Explosive Child Is Trying to Tell You is a lifeline for parents who are at their wits’ end.
DR. DOUGLAS RILEY is a clinical psychologist whose practice focuses on children and adolescents who are explosive, oppositional, depressed, or have difficulties with concentration and learning. He is the author of The Defiant Child: A Parent’s Guide to Oppositional Defiant Disorder as well as The Depressed Child: A Parent’s Guide for Rescuing Kids.
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