Many years ago I stopped lying to myself about the reason I'm fat. It's not because my whole family is fat. It's not because I have PCOS and hypothyroid. It's because I eat the wrong things and too much of them. I realize that I don't just eat because I like food and it tastes good. It's not because I need to feel full or have a fear of being hungry. It's not how I socialize with others or show love. I overeat because I use food like a drug. I use food to punish. I'm not the person I should be, so maybe I deserve to be fat and miserable. I use food to reward and comfort myself. Life has been hard on me. Don't I deserve a little comfort? Why do I think eating will help? I know that it won't. I know it will make my health problems worse, but that doesn't stop me from eating it anyway.
One of these days I'm going to have to stop throwing tantrums over the fact that life isn't fair. Yes, I have what I consider to be some significant hurdles to overcome if I want to lose weight, but I know that the reason I haven't been able to do that is 100% because of the way that I eat and my lack of exercise. In order to lose weight I have to fight against my hormone imbalance, thyroid dysfunction, insulin resistance, clinical depression and anxiety, 24/7 back pain, and arthritis. I also get frequent respiratory infections that get treated with heavy duty rounds of steroids and antibiotics. It can take me a month or more to recover. My life circumstances keep ending up in the shitter. It's overwhelming whenever I allow myself to think about it too hard. But even with all of that I know that it is possible to lose weight. It's possible to focus on the positive and feel better. I've done it. I've lost hundreds of pounds over the years! I've made really good progress emotionally and learning to manage my mental health. I've just lost faith that I have the ability to keep any progress. Or have I? I'm here willing to try again, aren't I?
In a way I feel like I don't have a choice but to try again. My weigh in revealed that I'm the heaviest I have ever been. And that's really saying something. I am 338.2 pounds. No wonder none of my clothes fit. No wonder doing everything seems 10 times harder. I'm scared of dying. How terrifying to know that your own choices are killing you and you could have prevented it. I can't not try if I want to live.
I do want to live! I still have a choice. I'm not bed bound- I can get up and walk. I still have the use of my hands - I can cook and make healthy meals. I fortunate enough to have health insurance - I can fill out my prescriptions and take my medicines faithfully. Let's just roll with that - with managable tasks - for once and not agonize and over analyze every facet of my psyche. Let's not worry about what I may or may not do in the future, ok, Rachel? Ok.
Today I weighed in and started the diet bet I signed up for. I spent time with my family reading the Percy Jackson series to them. I laughed so hard with my husband trying to recreate a "frown smile" (don't ask, it's really stupid). I prepared a healthy dinner in the crockpot so I won't go to the store for convenience food. I didn't eat breakfast, but I counted my calories at lunch and I didn't eat any more cheetos. I wrote a blog instead. Bless you to bits for reading this shit.