Introspection

Part of my weight loss journey has been about figuring out the "whys" of myself, like why I chose to stay overweight. I'm not usually one for navel-gazing, but lately I've been forcing myself to take the time to think and write about how I really feel about my life.

One of the things I've been focusing on is work. I can't really call it a career, because honestly, pulling espresso and pushing overpriced sugary coffee drinks isn't a career I want. I've also got massage therapy under my belt; I just need to take my national exam to be considered a certified therapist. I have to say that the more I think about things, though, the less I'm interested in any sort of "real" job. At first I thought this was just laziness -- not wanting to have to get up, get dressed, and go out every day. Then I thought I might be too attached to the Kid to put him in someone else's care while I work. But as I wrote those thoughts down in my journal, it started to hit me. It's not laziness, it's not fear, it's not lack of ambition. Having a regular job is just not what I want to do. Period. Full stop.

So what DO I want to do? What makes me happy? What makes me feel fulfilled? Those are the tougher questions to answer, but as the days go by, I'm feeling more and more like what I'm best at and what makes me happy is to be here, in my home, taking care of my family. The whole time I'm at work, I'm thinking about being at home. And while I'm at home, I'm so happy to be there -- even on the days when the Kid is a pain, or the dogs barf somewhere, or I have to clean toilets or fold everyone's underpants.

When I first started working less and staying home more (last October), I felt really overwhelmed and stressed. I still feel that way from time to time. What I've figured out, though, is that it's not the home stuff or family stuff or marriage stuff that's stressing me out. It's the fact that I have to put those things aside to go to a job I don't like. It's having to put my family life aside every evening so I can go to bed early enough to get up for work the next day.

All I want to do is take care of my family, my home, and myself. I love cooking, gardening, playing with my son, having dinner with my husband. I love the tiny daily details of keeping house. I love planning my week, and my errands, and having friends over for dinner. Can this be my job, please? Sadly, the answer to that question is NO. For now, I have to keep working, just for financial reasons. But knowing what I really and truly want to do, being honest with myself about that, is going to make it easier to bear.

What does all this have to do with my weight, you might be wondering. Well, the fact is, when I'm happy, I don't overeat. I don't punish myself with food. Happy Me likes to get up and run, eat good food, rest. Happy Me takes care of herself. So figuring out why I haven't been happy is really important.

Good Week, Bad Week

After my big loss last week, I've taken it a little too easy this week. I haven't been pushing myself as hard on my runs. I've kept my food in check, though, and I've been really trying to pay attention instead of just cruising along in auto-pilot mode. I've done a lot of writing (just haven't published all of it), and spent a lot of time thinking about what's up with me lately.

Some things I've figured out:

Most of the "treat" food I think I want is really, really, really not worth it.

I had lunch with Smith and his wife on Thursday. We got takeout pizza from the Italian place by my house. This is pizza that I LOVE, like eat it once a week because ohhhh the greasy goodness LOVE. I was really hungry when the pizza arrived, and it smelled so good. But halfway through the second piece, I just realized that it didn't really taste that good. It was greasy, salty, everything I thought I wanted, but...bleh. It wasn't disgusting, don't get me wrong, and Fattie was certainly delighted. It just didn't taste as good as I remembered. And afterwards, I had a bellyache from the grease. Urp.

Then last night, I had to go to my store's Holiday meeting (not a party, we just sit around and talk retail). All of the holiday pastries we are selling this year were set up on the tables, cut into convenient bite-sized pieces. In years past, I have eaten at least a half to three quarters of a tray of these things. This year, I had a small piece of each just so I could taste if they were any different from last year, and then I was done. And again, it really didn't taste that good. I didn't feel tempted, I didn't feel like it was a big deal to say "No, I tried that one, I'm good."

I need to focus on my victories, no matter how small, instead of beating myself up.

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm the queen of self-depracating humor. I learned a long time ago that if I beat everyone to the punch, and come up with the meanest or funniest joke, then nobody else will take a stab at teasing me. The problem is, nobody wants to tease me anymore (well, except maybe Smith and Hubs when they get together), so I don't need the defense mechanism. What I need to do is remind myself that for the most part, I am a pretty kickass person, and I deserve to feel good about myself. For example, I've lost a total of fourteen pounds. FOURTEEN POUNDS IS A BIG DEAL, even when I know I have many, many more pounds to lose. Another example? What used to be my ZOMG DEATH ON TEH TREADMILL running pace is now my "warmup" pace. Oh yeah, and how about the fact that I've shrunk out of my jeans AND two sizes of underwear?

Routine is very, very good for me.

To some it may seem boring, or even robotic. But for me, doing the same thing, in the same order, every day is extremely comforting and sustaining. Get up at the same time, eat my same breakfast, same bedtime, same same same same same. Routine is what makes it easier to get up at 3 AM and run, to turn down junk food, to keep the house under control.

My uterus is not the boss of me.

I used to blame everything on Aunt Flo. Gained weight? Her fault. Feeling tired? Her fault. Being an insanely cranky bitch and biting the heads off everyone around you? So totally her fault. But guess what? Her = me. And I'm not going to lay around on the couch for a week eating crap and allowing myself to get away with it because my uterus is in purge mode. It's become clear through this and a couple of other minor physical challenges that my brain can convince my body to do (or not do) whatever it wants. I'm just going to keep doing what I'm doing, and my body can cooperate or get left behind.

So I'd say it's been a good week overall, and I'm going to finish strong with my run and workout tomorrow. RAH!

Epiphany

Smith asked me a really simple question during our sit-down meeting on Friday night. After we'd gone over the outline of his training plans, my goals, and such, he said, "You already know all this stuff. So, what's keeping you from doing it?"

That's the first time anyone's ever asked me that question. Seriously -- no one's ever asked me why before. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I let myself stay obese when I know exactly how to get rid of the weight? I told Smith I didn't know, squirming in my chair. But when I crawled into bed on Friday night, the answer came to me. It hit me in the chest like a fastball, knocked the wind out of me.

Because I feel like I deserve to be punished.

Typing that sentence brings tears to my eyes. Most of the people who know me these days can't imagine why in the world I'd ever think something like that. But that's it. That's the reason.

The truth is, I've done some really god-awful things in my life, things I'm too ashamed of to ever write about here (at least at this point, anyway). I've hurt a lot of people and done a lot of damage. And I've never forgiven myself. Instead, I've spent years doing whatever I can to keep myself from being truly happy, because how could somebody as awful as me ever deserve happiness?

I don't know why this has never occurred to me before. It makes perfect sense, though. Every time I've ever given up on something I was good at, or something that made me happy, deep down I felt like I had to because I didn't deserve it. Giving up on the things I love, keeping myself fat and miserable, that's my punishment. That's my penance for doing the wrongs I've done.

I think it's going to take me a while to get through this part. I've been crying off and on since Friday night, barely made it through a wedding and time with friends last night. I don't know where or how to start the process of forgiving myself. I just know I have to.

NOTE: Please don't interpret this as a plea for positive comments, affirmations, or "OH, but you're so AWESOME!" messages. I'm not fishing for love this morning, honest.

They're Just Food, They're Not Love

I spent the better part of yesterday wallowing in self-pity. By mid-afternoon, I managed to snap out of it, and decided I'd enjoy making a good dinner in my new kitchen. So, yay for getting over myself, but seriously? I'm so sick of the numbers on the scale dictating how I feel.

Yes, I gained about four pounds. I know exactly why, and I know exactly how to get rid of it. So why do I spiral down into a pit of misery and try to self-medicate with the very stuff that makes me feel shitty in the first place? I AM FAT. I GOT SLIGHTLY MORE FAT. SO HEY, LET'S EAT LEFTOVER CUPCAKE FROSTING AND POTATO CHIPS UNTIL WE FEEL BETTER. But guess what...it never feels better. Because after I'm done, I look at the dessicated remains of whatever I've devoured, and I get mad at myself for being "weak." I put it in quotes because I'm not really sure that weakness is what makes it happen. I think it's just a habit: Feel bad? Eat. Feel lonely? Eat. Feel anything...EAT. That's the habit I need to break.

The Origin of the Species

Mom (Maybe the Original FvF?) and Me, 2006

My mom loves food, probably as much as I do. But she has one advantage: her other love is exercise. SERIOUS exercise. She's been a runner since the 70s, got into triathlons, weight lifting, the works. At almost 60 years old, she's in the kind of shape people wish they were in at 30.

She wasn't always a super-athlete. Go back to pictures from her pre-running days, and you'll find a voluptuous (and unbelievably tan!) woman, not fat, but certainly not lean. She told me herself that she's always loved to eat, but she figured out a long time ago that in order to eat a lot, she'd have to exercise a lot. That light bulb went on probably around 1979 and hasn't flickered once in 30 years. She shared that lesson with me many times, even working out with me as a teenager and encouraging me to exercise throughout my adult life.

My mom taught me a lot that shaped my relationship with food. She taught me how to cook, but more importantly, she taught me how to appreciate good food. Not snobby food (although I did have a few Molly Ringwald/Breakfast Club moments as I unpacked my lunch at school), but GOOD food. No canned vegetables, no Hamburger Helper, no convenience food whatsoever. Spaghetti O's? Heck no. Try homemade pasta with chunky sauce that takes a full day to cook.

Not all of her lessons were healthy ones, unfortunately. Without realizing what she was doing, Mom was so strict about junk food that it almost became an obsession for me. If my sister and I asked for soda, we got Fresca. We asked for "good" cereal, and we got Honey Nut Cheerios. We had to ask permission before getting food from the pantry or the fridge. If you told my mom, "I'm hungry!" you'd hear, "Have a glass of water."

She didn't know then what we know now -- that when you deprive kids of a certain type of food (like junk food) they'll overindulge when they finally have access to it. Whereas if you give them a free choice, they tend to sample moderately from the different groups.

I don't think she had anything but the best intentions for my sister and me; she never told me I was fat, never made fun of my weight, never picked on my eating habits. She was always one to make gentle suggestions, and I never felt like she was judging me when I didn't follow them.

Maybe she was just afraid that we would end up struggling with our weight like she felt she had as a teenager? Maybe she was just trying to save us some pain later in life? Who knows. I just know that I don't blame her for my obesity. I don't buy into the whole "blame your parents for everything that's wrong with you" mentality (especially now that I'm a parent myself, heh). I think parents do the best they can with what they have, making the most of whatever parenting skills they did (or didn't) learn from their own parents. How they raise you does have an impact on your life, obviously, but I don't like the word "blame." You learn from their example, either how to cope with life or how not to cope. But I digress...

All I'm doing here is trying to figure out when and why this whole weight dilemma began, and hopefully that knowledge will help me end it once and for all. I'm waiting patiently for my own light bulb moment, making sure that the socket is wired up and ready to go.