Getting MAD!

Dang it, this is hard!

Monday was our second weigh in. Remember that 7.5 pounds I'd told you about? The one that dropped to 5.5 pounds for last week's weigh in? It dropped right back off...then came back. Then dropped off again. So Monday morning arrived bright and early, and I was at a grand total of 7.5 pounds lost.

I know that's nothing to complain about...2 pounds a week is safe and healthy. And it's progress. What's even MORE progress is the 3.5 inches I lost, bringing me to a grand total of, what, 12~12.25 inches in two weeks? That's downright awesome!

That's what I keep telling myself, anyway. But, well, my "self" isn't doing a very good job of listening, to be honest. I didn't exercise yesterday because I spent the whole day away from home. That doesn't mean I didn't have the opportunity, mind you...it just means that Bertha reminded me of how self-conscious I am about exercising in front of other people, and used that as a reason to keep me on my butt for the better part of the day.

Really, though, that's nothing new. See, today, I was back to my old habits. I'm going to tell you a secret, too...those old habits? They involve sitting in bed all day, usually with a computer in my lap. Sometimes they also involve vast amounts of comfort food eaten in said bed, although not as often as you might think. Usually I completely forget to eat or drink anything until my DH gets home. Then I inhale a calorie bomb, realize I'm hungry, eat ANOTHER batch of junk at like, 10 pm, and spend half the remaining night lying awake, beating myself up over the utter waste of a perfectly good day.

I know that crosses the line of "too uncomfortably personal for the internet" but you know what? I DON'T CARE. I used to. Oh buddy did I ever use to...If I had to guess, the above statement would probably surprise all but a handful of the people who know me. I took a kind of twisted pride in my ability to hide how flippin' hard it is for me to just get out of bed in the morning. I poured every ounce of the energy I had into putting on a happy face at work and in Walmart. There were times when I'd spend the entire night in the darkest, most terrible places of my past, then head off to work with a bright smile and a "isn't it a beautiful morning?" to everyone I saw.

That was, of course, because I was really, really, really ashamed of it. Everyone else I know does it with no problem. I have a good life; I've been blessed in so many ways it's hard to keep count, and there are a lot of less fortunate people who suck it up and go on. So, the way I saw it, I should to. The fact that I really struggle with it, and that I don't always win, made me want to just sink back under the covers and hide from the world all that much more. It was a vicious, terrible cycle that was going no-where quick.

But that kind of reasoning is absolutely stupid, and I'm not going to accept it anymore. No one says, for instance, that a person with diabetes is "making excuses" because of the ways in which they have to alter their lifestyle in order to control and accommodate their illness. I've allowed the opinions of others and their comments about my "laziness" to shape my view of myself. I've long known that my distorted perspective of my own situation was wrong, but that "head knowledge" is only just now beginning to really sink in...and, to be honest, it's made me mad.

I'm mad that, for so long, I've permitted that kind of talk, from others and from myself. I'm mad that I've wasted so much time being embarrassed and scared of other people's opinions to take the steps I needed to take in order to fix things. I'm mad at...at IT. At all the things that have added together to create this massive knot of junk that I have to work through. It isn't fair, it isn't right, and I absolutely hate it.

If you've never taken a moment to acknowledge that for yourself, to take that think you keep bottled up and pushed back - that tender spot - and just say "It isn't fair, it wasn't right, and it hurt!" then let me cordially invite you to do just that. It isn't a pity party - pity is useless. It's being honest to yourself and to God, and it feels good. Seriously. Try it.

So anyway, I got mad today. Really, really mad. And then, something amazing happened. That anger burned away some of the embarrassment and the fear, and left sheer determination in its wake. It made me own up to something I think we all already knew; this extra weight is just the consequence of deeper symptoms. It's a physical indication of what's going on under the surface; a visible reminder that all is not well in Brittanyland. As the other junk goes, so will it...and I want it gone.

After fighting with myself all day, I'm exhausted. But I've also been thinking of all the "what now?" parts, and I've come to a few decisions. For one, I'm being as reckless and hasty in this as I am in everything else. I'm publishing the post unedited so that I'm not tempted to delete it, and I'm torching my escape route back into my normal routine in a very public way, so that going back is not an option any longer. I don't want anyone's pity...that's part of the reason I've only ever tested these waters with a few people before. I hate being pitied.

I'm getting back into my exercise routine first thing tomorrow. I'm going to do it come hell or high water, but I'm also going to acknowledge what a very big accomplishment that is. Things that often come easily to others are more difficult for me. That's not making excuses, it's taking a realistic view of my situation and celebrating my success. I can do this, but the only way I'm going to succeed is by taking baby steps and being kind to myself along the way.

So let's start: In the past two weeks, I've done more deliberate exercise than in the past year combined, I've managed, even on my worst days, to not undo my progress with bad eating, and I've gotten up and dressed most days. I've acknowledged my set backs, but I've refused to let them derail me. I've been kind to myself, and given Bertha more than one black eye. And I have lost 7.5 pounds and 12 inches in just TWO WEEKS. In short, I'm very, very proud of me.