So, okay. I think the sooner we all face the fact that I am a blogging suck-hole who barely manages to get a post up every WEEK, let alone every day, the better off we'll all be. Of course, some of you may have already realized this and long since left me...
Killjoy, although I think I have a vague idea of what might be going on with you, just know that I am thinking of you and sending all of the prayers, best wishes, and good vibes that I possibly can.
Sister-o-Mine, I miss you ridiculously, and I have a hit out on your cell phone. Tonight, it sleeps with the fishes. I'm flailing around desperately without you!
Everyone else, I'm still reading all of you every day and loving all of your blogs. I've got a couple of new ones to add to my list, too, when I get around to it. Yeah, I'll do that riiiiiiiight after my next post...
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I do have a reason, though, for my slackerrific tendencies. Namely, I'm making time for myself, 'cause I need to. I started a weight-loss blog with my best friend who is also struggling with a weight problem and so I air most of it out there, but just so you know, I'm doing the whole Kickin'-Ass-and-Takin'-Names THING regarding my weight and my health. So, I've been busy.
On October 18, 2005, a Tuesday and a day which will forever be burned in my brain, I decided to say, "EFF IT!!!", and that I am no longer going to contribute to the expansion of MY ASS. Nothing happened on Tuesday; it was the Monday before that helped put it all into place. That Monday, I had (get ready, people): a breakfast of four, possibly five donuts; a lunch of Cheez-its, Junior Mints (the BIG box), and Pepsi; a snack of Cheez-its; and a dinner of a large-sized McDonald's value meal. Later, recounting that day's eats to someone, that person remarked, "Wow, that's like a total binge." No, no. That's pretty much how I ate EVERY DAY. Notice I said, "ate."
I have carried myself through a LIFETIME battle with my weight, and I have always, always lost. In first grade, I remember constantly being aware that I had a "pooch", and knew even then that my thighs were bigger than the other girls, and that it was a bad thing. In third grade I got stuck in a tire swing that my skinny friend crawled through and I thought I could crawl through, too. By the end of fifth grade, I was a full C-cup. In sixth grade, I worked in the lunchroom - all year, in a small-town school where the lunch ladies actually cooked, and where they let us eat as many of their homemade peanut butter cups as we wanted, which OF COURSE I DID. In seventh grade, I cried to my mom because Farty Marty said I was too fat to dance with at the mandatory school dance, and Josh and David and Kip all laughed. After Phillip broke up with me before eighth grade, I vowed never to date a guy whose butt was smaller than mine was. This limited my options severely; options which, really, were already severely limited. When I started high school, I had completely mastered the art of sneak-eating. I played tennis all throughout school and was moderately athletic which helped a little bit, but I was always acutely aware that I was a good 20 to 30 pounds larger than the girls my same height and age. By college, I discovered parties and alcohol, and that unlike most of my friends when they drank, I became absolutely RAVENOUS the more intoxicated I got. If alcohol equaled fun, and food equaled fun, then by God, alcohol AND food equaled par-TAY!! Freshman fifteen? Hmph; I laugh at you. I continued on through my twenties, drinking a LOT less and eating a lot more. I wasted three years of my life with a workout-obsessed a-hole who barely tolerated me and for whom I bent over backwards trying to look good, downing Dexatrim, Hydroxycut and Metabolife like they were candy because I was convinced that if he didn't love me, then no one else sure as hell would. He cheated on me, broke up with me and promptly married his new chick, and I rekindled my old romance with food. I traded in my suits and tailored shirts for loose sweaters, polos, and baggy pants (no shorts or swimsuits, EVER); my makeup and my sassy short hair for chapstick and ponytails. I met my husband, an uncomparably good human being who is absolutely divine and loves me unconditionally for who I am, and settled in with my hope for the future in one hand and my cheeseburgers and Snickers in the other. When he hurt his back the first week of our marriage, which resulted in back surgery and almost a year of unemployment, I gained 65 pounds through stress eating, which I have also perfected. Yes. Sixty-five pounds. In one year. IN. ONE. YEAR.
Last December, my dad died. I think we all died. My dad - the ONE person who knew better than ANYONE the struggle I went through with food, because he did, too, only with alcoholism thrown in as a burdensome bonus - was gone. Ripped away from us, just as he was figuring it all out. Just as he was fixing it all. Me, I just continued on the path I was already on, with denial, fear, and anger now along for the journey.
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I've always kind of waited for this magic bolt of lightning to hit me. The lightning that says, "Okay. You've carried this around for too long. You've let this run your life for too long. You're done. Fix it. Fix yourself." And then I would remember that it can't possibly work that way. It's gotta be a process, it's gotta be an understanding. But on Tuesday, October 18, 2005, that bolt hit me. It hit me hard, and it hit me to the core. And I get it now. I can't explain it, and I certainly can't describe it because there are no words. There are no words for suddenly getting up one day and being so fed up with your behavior and your excuses and yourSELF that you just STOP. And begin to turn it around. But that's what I did. That's what I AM doing. And I think about my dad every day, and how the lightning bolt hit him, at age 57, and he started turning it around, too. He was denied the chance to see it through, and he figured it out too late. I don't want to be 57 and just starting to live. I want to do it NOW - for myself, my health, my husband, my babies if I have any, my friends and family, and most importantly, for my dad.
To say that I feel amazing, empowered, and ridiculously ALIVE is doing a complete and total injustice to the way I really feel. Like I said, I can't describe it. I've been given a jolt, and shocked back to life in a way that I never thought was possible for me.
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My doctor gave me a goal weight. Not skinny, not thin, but a healthy, moderate weight - good for my height, age, and body type. To get there, my total weight loss will need to be exactly 99 pounds. Since my banner day in October, I've lost 16. I have 83 lbs. to go, and mark my words, IT WILL HAPPEN.
Food has been my comfort, my companion, my judge and jury. I just don't want it to be my executioner.