I’ve struggled with writing this post for a while now, and I am writing it 24 hours in advance to give me plenty of time to take it all back if I feel like it. If you are reading this, I didn’t chicken out. There is something to be said for that.
So anyway, here it goes.
When I look in the mirror, I don’t see a fat person. I don’t see someone who is obese. I see a woman who looks ok, if not for a few extra pounds and curves. I know what the scale says, and I know what my pant size is, and yet I check myself out and think “not bad…”.
But then I see photos and almost do a double take. Who is that bloated person holding my child…OMG, that is me?? And a few months ago, when we watched our amusement park day trip photos as a slide show on our TV, it just kind of hit me. That is me. That is what I look like. That is what other people see when they look at me.
And I was mortified.
So I identified that there was a problem, which is great, but what about doing something about it. I started paying attention to what I was eating, and in the process, was guilting myself about having a small piece of cake, or anything that wasn’t “healthy”. I wondered if other people were watching what I was eating too, and judging or mocking me, and I started sneaking things like Burger King in my car. I started feeling really bad about myself, which was new—I was always able to rationalize my behavior, to myself anyway, and I don’t know—just generally be ok with it. I started slacking at the gym, or skipped going altogether. I wallowed. I felt trapped; heavy under the pressure of wanting to do something about it, but feeling frozen on account of the pressure of how much work I actually needed to do. Do you understand that feeling? I used to try and explain it to Hub as it related to housework—I am a very poor housekeeper. I could see that there was so much to be done. I would know that it was necessary. But the sheer volume of work overwhelmed me to the point of panic. And I would crumble under the pressure, and basically do nothing.
A few weeks ago when we vacationed, something horrible happened to me. After spending the day at Hershey, in 94 degree temperatures, with humidity through the roof, my body started to fail me. I had been sweating all day; there was no avoiding it. As the day ended though, it had enough, and began to go in to survival mode. I started dripping buckets of sweat, was soaked to the skin, cold and clammy, shaky and struggled to make it out of the park and to the truck. It took over an hour of sitting, drinking water, 4 advil and air conditioning to regulate my body temperature and make me feel somewhat human again. I wasn’t evaluated by anyone or anything, but I think I actually overheated. Something that probably would not have happened if I had been taking better care of myself, and if I wasn’t carrying around so much extra weight, or at the very least, had made a commitment to exercise and health. It was embarrassing.
After that day, I had a sort of revelation. This cannot happen again. CAN NOT. How terrible for my kids to have seen me like that. How terrible for my husband to have to manage the 3 of them out of the park because of my issues. This cannot happen again. I mean, what if we had actually gone to Disney. What if something like that had happened to me there, on our vacation of a lifetime? CAN NOT.
And really, it’s not that much unlike my housework issues in the past. Once Bud was born, it sort of hit me. We can’t have all of this clutter. We just cannot. CAN NOT. We have a child, and the house needs to be clean. We chipped away at that pieces one at a time, until we were at a point where daily picking up and dishes etc were enough. I am still not the best housekeeper. I may let the dishes sit in the sink until tomorrow, or forgo sweeping the kitchen floor. But I generally keep a clean house. It’s not different, right? I need to chip away at this a little bit at a time, watch what I eat, work out in a productive manner. I need to be healthy for my kids.
That’s what it boils down to. It isn’t about the number on the scale, or about the size of my pants, it’s about general well being. Mine and my family’s. I need to set a better example. I need to get past the panic. I need to stop being lazy. I need to be a better me.
This isn’t to say that it won’t come without struggle, or that I’m going to go all motivational and shit from here, or that I’ll turn my life around in a split second and be 100% health kick all the time, or that it won’t totally suck. And I’m not going to say that I’ll never eat cake again.
But I may have to give it up for a while. And that’s ok. I can be ok with that.
So that’s my story. My name is Saly, and I’m a bit screwed up. But I am working on it.