Yesterday, I hated being a weight loss blogger. I have shared struggles before. I share victories as often as I can. I share lessons and stories of depression and sleep deprivation. I share. I share for me, to chronicle this long fight to the finish, and I share for others, so they feel like they aren’t alone.
But sometimes, I don’t want to share. I’m ashamed or sad. I’m distraught or spiteful. I want to crawl in my bed and put the blanket over my head. The much cleaner version of putting your head in the sand. Yesterday, I did not want to share.
Weight is the one thing in my life I feel like I’ve failed miserably at. I am a classic overachiever. Like all people, I want to feel special and like I’ve done something good. I really thought before yesterday morning that I did something good. I did a month long world of good.
When the scale said something different from what I thought it would, it was like taking my tiara off my head and spitting on my gold star by my name. Stripping my trophy.
I spent yesterday fuming, wondering what was wrong with my body. Something had to be wrong.
I bucked up and wrote the post. The one people emailed me and tweeted me about all day. I had built up this month long scale boycott, and it was the day of reckoning. It backfired. My trophy felt tarnished.
A couple people wrote comments on that post that threw me for a loop. I got defensive and wanted to go back and defend myself. We always want to fix people, but sometimes we need to figure things out for ourselves. I have never been great at taking criticism. I bit my tongue and tried to go to sleep, hoping the next day would bring some revelations.
This morning, I got up early and put on my big girl pants. I went to the gym and did my weight training routine. This body, which was performing things I never thought possible, wasn’t broken. What WAS wrong, however, was completely my fault. It IS possible to eat too much of the good stuff. I simply ate too much of the good stuff. This mistake was on ME. This was complacency on my part just assuming that what I was eating was the correct portion size. Yesterday in the middle of my fuming, I went out and bought a food scale. When I have used it the past 3 meals, it’s evident to me that I was WAY overeating, even if it was “good stuff.” Lesson learned.
2 days ago, I was strong and fit.
Yesterday, I was strong and fit.
Today, I am strong and fit.
The knowledge that the scale said a number I didn’t like turned me into someone I didn’t like. Someone in denial and someone who wants to hide from the world. Someone who forgets how hard she’s worked to get to where she is now. Someone who can flip back into her shell like the old 455 pound version who didn’t ever leave the house and ate ridiculous amounts of food and got no exercise. A diseased obese person.
So today, I’m back to fat and fit. I’m making progress at my own pace. Will you join me?