I have let my body get out of control for some time now.
For most of my adult life (except for baby making times) I have floated around a particular weight. One that I am quite comfortable with. It could be lower, but hey, it puts me in the healthy weight range, and I’m ok with that.
But over the last few years, things have changed. I’m not hiding from my choices. I’ve moved less. I’ve eaten more of the wrong things and less of the right things.
About a year ago, I finally faced my ugly reality, and got on the scales. 9 kilos over my comfort zone. 9 kilos. I was so full of shame and disgust with myself. Somehow though I pushed through the emotional desire to have another coffee and a slice of key lime pie, made some changes, and shifts started to happen.
I lost about 7 of those kilos, and then 3 crept back on, with roadtrip and emotional year. Excuses. I know.
So, I was sitting about 5 over. Which wasn’t great, but it felt like I could change it when I was ready.
Then about a week ago, I decided enough was enough. Time to get sorted. Not for weight loss, but for health (but always with the secret expectation that weight loss would follow). I cleaned up my act. Starting eating breakfast. Got myself moving, and changed my portion sizes.
This morning, after some energising, get the blood pumping and the life force flowing walk / runs over the last few days, I got up to repeat the experience. I was feeling great! I thought I’d just jump on the scales, to see whether my choices had rewarded me yet.
I nearly died. Right there and then. 2 more kilos.
Putting me 7 over my magic number.
I wanted to curl up, roll back into bed, and pretend I’d never seen it.
I forced myself to keep getting dressed. Which meant I had to see myself naked. With my disgusting extra 7 kilos. Remembering that just yesterday Dean had spent a while scrolling through fitness sites and showing me (kindly – no intentions about me – just talking food and fitness and exercise) a bunch of amazingly fit looking women. My body looks nothing like theirs. NOTHING.
I managed to get out on the road.
I hadn’t even got to the next drive way before the tears started. And they just kept coming. Before I knew what was happening, it wasn’t just tears. It was full blown crying, with sobs and horrible noises. I was trying to stay quiet, because I was ON THE STREET.
In the end, I just turned up my music so I couldn’t hear myself. I was so very grateful that the 2 walkers I did see ahead of me each turned into their own driveways and disappeared before I reached them.
I cried and I cried.
I thought I was making better choices. And yet I had MORE weight than before. What if I’ve lost the key to my own good health? Tears.
After all, each of my sisters have lost nearly 30 kilos over the past couple of years. Things shift and change, and not just in small ways. What if these recent 2 kilos are just the start?
Well obviously, I cannot let that happen.
Which must mean no more wine, no more scones for brunch, and I’d better not have any birthday cake for Sabrina on Friday.
Suddenly, I felt like a caged animal, trapped inside the glass walls that keep me separate from everyone else, knowing that the label of my enclosure is “Deprivation”.
I know this all sounds mental. I also know that so many of you believe in the “throw out the scales” philosophy. Just eat healthy foods, drink plenty of water and move your body.
I’m quite happy to throw out my scales and focus on those things. But only when I’m at my magic number.
I don’t dare throw them out yet.
After all, it was these numbers that killed my Mum.
Maybe they will kill me too.
Today I know two things for sure.
1. A walk / run where your focus is trying not to cry so loud that you disturb the neighbours and your view keeps dropping to just in front of your feet, is not very much fun at all.
2. I am petrified that I won’t be able to get on top of this.
ps – I am hoping that by getting this whacked out crazy talk out of my head that I can see it for what it is, and let it go.