Miles and Miles

I did my first run on Saturday morning. Smith was at our door at six, went through some stretches, and then put me on the treadmill. After doing a tenth of a mile walking briskly, I had to ramp up the speed and actually run (well, jog I guess...whatever...it's fucking running to me) for another four tenths of a mile. And campers, it was hard. I didn't think it'd be so hard. I didn't think my lungs would burn, or that I'd sweat, or that I'd tell Smith I felt like I was going to die (his response to that? "It's okay. I know CPR. KEEP GOING.").

What surprised me even more was that the feelings I'd stirred up the night before started bubbling away while I ran. I tried to block them out and stare at the mileage on the treadmill's display, but Smith caught me and covered it up. He made me think about my breathing, getting it in rhythm with my stride. It helped, both to keep me from passing out and to keep me from crying. He kept telling me, "Go to that place. Go where you need to go."

And I did.

It happened really fast, but for just a few moments, I knew what he meant. My feet were thudding away on the treadmill, and the thought came to me:

"I AM NOT A BAD PERSON."

Thud. Thud. Thud. Breathing. Again:

"I AM NOT A BAD PERSON."

Thud. Thud. Thud. Breathing.

For that thirty seconds or so, I got it. I understood, finally, that this was going to be my way to let it all go, all the bullshit, all the sadness, all those steamer trunks of garbage that I've been hauling around for years. I wanted to stop, and sob, and let it all out in an avalanche of feelings, but I didn't. I kept going, I finished my half-mile.

After the run, I was in the kitchen, coughing my brains out and slurping water. Smith heard me and said, "You knock some stuff loose there?"

Yep, I sure did. But not from my lungs.

234

Yes!

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.

Nerves A-Janglin'

So Smith is coming over tonight to go over Operation Un-Fat Me. I'm excited, but a little nervous, too. I've never had anybody (well, other than my mom) act as my trainer before, so I'm not quite sure what to expect. I know it'll be good, and I also know it's going to be hard. It's like the first day of school, or something. I just keep telling myself, "I can do this. I can DO this. I CAN DO THIS O MY GOD I MIGHT BARF."

Oh god, what if I barf on Smith? He'd probably think it was funny. But still. Oh god.

Momentum

The Right Stuff - 1983

Do you know this scene? It's when the astronauts are doing their lung capacity test. It turns into a competition, all the guys fighting to keep their little red ball afloat. This is kind of how I feel right now. All of my effort is directed at a single goal. 

I feel good. Things have been going smoothly. I talked to Smith for a while about training (turns out he wants to work with the Hubs, too!), my mom treated me to a family membership at the Y, and everything around the house has just fallen into place. I'm cooking healthy dinners, packing lunch for the Hubs, and even eating a real lunch myself every day. Everything's just sort of rolling along, gathering speed.

I'm not used to this. Part of me is waiting for something to go wrong, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like on Tuesday - I drank a root beer. (It tasted AMAZING. I highly recommend ice-cold IBC on a hot day!) "Well, that's it, you had a SODA! You might as well just give up now. Sheesh!" I thought.

Nope. Not giving up, not going to pig out just because I drank a single root beer and enjoyed it. Nor will I beat myself up for having pizza last night - I ate less than normal, and I had a big salad with it. For me, that's progress.

Habit

This week's habit: Hope.

My friend JoAnna left a really sweet comment on my Facebook page the other day:

Jenny, you are a beautiful person. I keep up with this blog, and you are very hard on yourself. I know you think that you have to be. I have been there. Last year, I weighed 240 lbs. I am by no means where I want to be now, but I have lost 70 lbs. It is habit. A very hard habit to break. I know you can do it, God knows if I can, anyone can... If the hubs brings home junk food, tell him not to. Don't buy cookies and chips, trust me, if they were in the house, I would have eaten them. It is a habit now for me not to want them, and I don't crave them anymore. You can do it Jenny. If you want, we can do it together.

The part that jumped out at me was the second line: "...and you are very hard on yourself." I think that's true. I've used self-deprecating humor as a defense mechanism for so long, I almost don't know how to stop. I learned a long time ago that if I crack a joke about myself first, then when others joke on me, it doesn't hurt (as much). Kind of a Cyrano complex, I guess.

Anyway, this week I'm working on my attitude. That's a habit, just like drinking water or eating breakfast. I am staying positive, throwing the negativity out the window, and keeping the little stew-pot of hope bubbling on the stove.

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.