Reward and Loss

 

December 1^st I signed up for Nerd Fitness One-on-One Coaching. I had stagnated in my fitness goals and needed some outside help. Frankly, aging is encroaching on my resolves.

              This isn’t going to be a post bemoaning lack of fitness, but suffice it to say that over the last 18 months I’ve gained over 25 lbs. At that rate, I soon would be at risk for serious health consequences.

              My new Nerd coach, Heather, suggested I start by simply logging my food intake and giving her access to my data. She reviews it, without comment. I thought that would clinch it: the motivation of knowing someone, even a very sympathetic someone, was reading my log. But it didn’t.

              I asked her about motivation tips and she suggested a non-food reward system. As I considered it, I couldn’t think of anything I wanted (besides ice cream and skittles: I have very simple tastes). I enjoy wearing old clothes, have frugal habits, and these days, with college tuitions behind us, if I really want something, I buy it.

              I mentioned the problem to my psych. nurse practitioner. She suggested finding a therapist who could help me work through the issue. Duh! I’ve had a therapist since my last psychotic break in 2003. Oh, right, she said, of course you do.

              When I saw my therapist, David, two weeks later, I presented my dilemma. What he asked in response took me aback.

What losses have you experienced during the pandemic?

    My immediate reaction was: I haven’t had any significant losses. I haven’t lost any loved ones in the pandemic (my parents died six and seven years ago), I can freely take walks in our leafy ( currently snowy) suburb of Boston; my grandchildren (and children) have been able to visit and enjoy our ‘grandchild magnet.’ But David just sat patiently as I processed his question and I did finally offer that I’d lost the ability to travel freely, attend musical concerts, and meet with people.

              He asked what my church congregation was doing and I admitted that although the in-person meetings were better than nothing, they were highly unsatisfactory: the 30 or so participants sitting in every third pew, unable to congregate, chat, and catch up before and after sacrament meeting. Sunday School and Relief Society are exclusively on Zoom.

    We left it there: the hour was over, but I continued to ponder his question.

    A reward system, as I have always practiced it, is actually a punishment system. My focus has always been giving up something pleasurable unless I straighten up and meet a goal. Similar to lugging books home from college, in my reward system I'm always behind, always inadequate, always falling short.

    Do I really need to punish myself in this time of loss? No, I don't. I've always considered myself an introvert, but even this introvert misses the face-to-face contact, the ability to give and receive nonverbal messages, the immediate feedback which prevents the common talk-over of Zoom.

    Pondering David's inquiry hasn't solved my overeating, but it is giving me a window into my interior world. That's the first step.