I’ve got a few bones to pick about this weight loss thing

Just a few bones to pick:

I think that it’s unfair that boobs count in my weight number.

After all, I didn’t ask to be busty.  At 40 years old, I’m not loving the girls so much.  I spent the first half of my life trying to hide them in baggy clothes, the middle part of my life just trying to find a bra that fit them well because babies made them blow up even more, and the last half of my life wishing someone would make them stop hurting my back.  Genetics gifted these damn things to me and I don’t think they should count.  I can do nothing short of lopping the suckers off.  Unfair.  Just sayin’.

I think Weight Watchers should have scales in a back room.

You see, if the scales were in a back room, behind closed doors, we could get our weight naked.  It’s already hooked to the computer by a cord.  I say lengthen the damn thing and let’s get this weighing thing done right.  Not to bring up the whole boob thing again, but I get a double whammy for being busty.  My bra weighs more than my less top-heavy friends’ bras, and my girls can’t go out in public unmanned.  A back room, naked weigh-in would at least help.  Again, just sayin’.

Flavor infused water.  WTF?

I get not wanting to choke back plain, old water all the time.  I use Crystal Light Sugar Free flavoring in mine.  Cherry Pomegranate.  Zero ppv.  YUM.  However, one lady today was talking about using fruit to flavor your water.  I can see that.  Then another lady shared that she heard that someone uses vinaigrette dressing.  Um, I have to side with my buddy Ann Marie here.  That’s two steps too close to douche for me, and that stuff ain’t meant for drinking.

Stress should count as an activity for which we can earn points.

I can do stress like a boss, and I definitely think I should benefit in the weight loss department for it.  Now, I know that it shouldn’t count for stress eating, but there are times that stress doesn’t make me eat.  On those rare occasions I should get points, even if only for exercising the will to not cram chocolate in my mouth.

Having teenagers should result in a weight credit.

I’m ripping my hair out at least once a week.  Where’s the weight loss?  Hair weighs SOMETHING!  I think if you are the parent of a teenager you should get at least a half-pound a week credit.  Pulling my hair out like a mad woman should have some up side to it.

Those are just a few of the bones I need to pick.  I’m sure there’s more, but my teenager can’t seem to stop calling his brother names while they’re getting ready for bed.  I’m donning my black-and-white striped shirt and going to referee.

How about you?  What would you like to see a weight credit for?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Step by step

I am enjoying the “we” in weight loss so much more than I thought I would.

Hanging this on my fridge helps me realize who I really answer to when I make poor choices.

As I shared last week, I joined a team in my Weight Watchers meeting that revolves around pedometers.  The goal is to get to 10,000 steps (or more, if you’re a beast of a walker!) each day.  Let’s just say I am not getting 10,000 steps a day.  However, I am getting some steps and tracking those.   I think there is a benefit right now in just being conscious of how much I am moving and making an effort to move more.

Diane, the lady who runs our Facebook page, is so happy and bubbly and it has a tendency to rub off on you!  She posts motivational memes and reminds all of us to stay on track.  I enjoy using Facebook to keep in touch with friends I don’t see regularly and as a marketing tool for my new book, but more often than not it sits in the background as I work, beeping at me whenever someone comments or messages me.  It’s nice to know throughout the day that there’s someone out there willing to give me a virtual nudge in the right direction in the form of a small beep that gets my attention.  When you spend a majority of your day banging around inside your own head like I do, writing, writing, writing, that little beep is a reminder that there’s something outside your head that requires your attention, too.  I get so wrapped up in my writing and caring for my family that my own goals fall somewhere near the bottom of my “To Do” list.  That little beep helps me to be aware of the moments I can move myself up a notch or two.

My biggest problem with my new team?  Me.  I’m scatterbrained.  I’m up about 5:30 a.m. most mornings and I hit the floor running.  It isn’t until 9 a.m., after the last kiddo is packed off and dropped off at school that I sit down at my computer, check my email, respond and send more, research marketing tips (must do 5 every day) and check in on Facebook.  Lo and behold, Diane has posted something motivational.  I remember then to clip on the pedometer because I forget EVERY SINGLE MORNING.  Then Lynn, our leader, posts something else motivational.  And that’s when I remember to go to the fridge and put the bottle of water next to my laptop.  Inevitably, someone shares an awesome recipe that is SO bad for points that I know it’s time to get to that editing I’ve been putting off.  I minimize the screen and work away until I see another post has popped up from Diane.  She’s shared her Wii dancing score.  Because shame is a great motivator, I know it’s time to get up and move my moneymaker, too.

Like I said.  I’m loving the “we” in weight loss.

Shyness, be damned!

What a roller coaster ride my life has been lately!

Available for purchase at Amazon.com or BarnesandNoble.com

I am coming out of my shell all over the place and it’s scaring the living poop out of me!

I have always been quiet.  I’ve never been one to draw attention to myself or to relish the limelight.  My happy place is home.  I’m perfectly happy to spend the day in my pj’s, working on my writing or reading.  Never have I been a social butterfly desiring adventure or travel.

So what do I do?  I write a book (link here).  I honestly thought no one would read it, just my little family unit.  It would become something cool for my kids to have someday when I’m no longer around, something my grandchildren could read and say “Boy, was Grandma a character.”  Then Jim said, “Don’t you want to be successful?”  Well, yeah.  I do.

Do you know what successful means?  Talking.  To actual people.  What I’m NOT that good at.  Give me a keyboard and some time and I can string together words that make me sound like I’ve got my crap together, but put me in front of a warm body and my tongue turns to lead and my brain takes a hike.

Little by little, people started to buy it.  Little by little, people started talking about how much they liked it, that it gave them hope, helped them notice the blessings in their lives.  Which tickled me to death, to be honest, because that was the point of all that writing:  To create a book that shared the awesomeness it is to be a mother, wife and aunt, to show the world how blessed we are not because of what house we have, or clothes we wear, or even what weight we are.  We are blessed because of people.

People.   The very thing that frightens me to death.

Weight Watcher’s focus this month is all about the “we” in weight loss.  How grouping together helps us maintain accountability and motivation to reach our weight loss goals.  So imagine the fear in my heart when I found out we had to break off into groups today.  We had to be social.  And talk.  Gaaaa!  But, you know what?  If I want to be a successful writer I have to get over being shy.  If I want to be successful in my weight loss goals, the shyness has to hit the road!

And guess what?  It didn’t kill me.  I’m still walking around.  No one devoured me.  And now, since I’ve been struggling with my weight and wanting to buy a pedometer but never doing it because, along with being shy, I’m a chronic cheapo, I took the plunge.  I bought a pedometer.  I joined the pedometer team at Weight Watchers and the lady in charge is the most social in the entire room.  ME.  Super shy cheapo joined the group with the most social woman!  Go me!

My leader, Lynn, purchased my book and told everyone last week about it and said so many nice things that I cried, overcome.  It never occurred to me that anyone in that room would care to even know about my book.  Then, this week, a lady whose name I didn’t even know raised her hand when it was time to celebrate good things from the week.  And you know what she shared?  Not one thing about herself.  She shared that she bought my book and was enjoying it.  I was flattered to tears.

The point of all this rambling is, that, I needed to take my own damn advice.  I write a book about the importance of the little things and the people in our lives and continue to overlook said people.  People rock!  They may scare me and my social skills might be in the toilet, but deep down people are kind and nice and sweet and helpful.

The “we” in weight loss isn’t possible without them, so, shyness be damned!

What matters this week

Let’s be honest.  When a person has a high number of pounds to lose the big picture can be overwhelming.  So overwhelming that it can make a person freeze in their tracks.  My number is that kind of number.

I get so discouraged when I think of that number that I want to quit.  But I can’t.  I know that.  I also know that attending that weekly meeting is what makes or breaks this Plus Size Mama’s success.

So many things get in the way of that meeting–dog surgery, kid taxiing, and weather.  I’ve got one other issue that makes it tough, one I struggle with every moment of the day.

Agoraphobia.

Nothing major, just a slight case.  It’s why I arrive at things that will be crowded so early.  I like to find my hiding spot before the event begins.  It’s why I sit in the corner where I can see everyone at all times.  I’m not anti-social on purpose.  I’m just a bit of an odd duck.  I won’t lie. The crowded room is what keeps me from entering if I’m late.  It’s what keeps me from speaking up most of the time.

But it’s also a part of me that needs work that Weight Watchers is helping me take care of without even knowing it.  I took my kids with me once and my youngest was so angry with me for not speaking up.  He said to me, “Mom, you lost weight this week you should raise your hand and get some applause.  Look how happy those people are!”  I just shook my head.  A few minutes later he said, “Mom, why are you so shy?  These people here are all so nice!”

“Yes, Tony, I know.”

And he’s right.

They are all so very nice and supportive.  Every meeting I go to I’m made to feel nothing less than extremely welcome.  Most people greet me with a smile and ask about my family, or my writing goals, or simply about getting my butt back in the building (Thanks, Stacy!).  And I need all of it.

What matters this week is that I went to that meeting.  I got out of the house.  I went to the new center (AWESOME!) and met with my weight loss buddies (EVEN MORE AWESOME) and had a great time.  My leader, Lynn (COVERED IN AWESOME SAUCE) even gave a shout out about my book to everyone, which made me cry a few happy tears.

What matters is that we are all in this together, whether our numbers are huge or small, attainable or overwhelming.  We’ve all got to be the inspiration that drags another person through that door, that links our arm in theirs and says, “We can do this.”

Did you notice that “we?”  WE can do this.  No one has to do it alone.

That’s what the meetings are all about.

That’s what matters.

 

 

Wrestling, in more ways than one

As you’ve noticed, I’ve been away for a while.  My oldest son began wrestling for his school in November.  Neither he nor I had the first clue what that commitment entailed.  What was supposed to be something that would give him an outlet quickly swallowed all of us whole.

Did you know that they wrestle five days a week and have a tournament nearly every Saturday?  Tournaments last ALL day.  Jimmy had to be dropped off by 5:30 a.m.  I would go home and wrangle the rest of the family after packing snacks and lunch.  One tournament lasted until 8:00 p.m.  Exhausting.

We recently attended Jimmy’s last tournament for the season.  Because this is his first year, Jimmy lost all of his matches.  His coach warned him that this would happen, that he needed to focus on improving his skills.  He did well over the course of the season on improving his stance and endurance, all good things for a budding wrestler.  However, each time Jimmy lost a match, I’d see the defeat in his eyes and I’d cry.  During his very last wrestling match I prayed that my son could have just one win.  Just one.  Well, my prayer was answered because Jimmy did win, by a pin.  He was very humble about his win and shook his opponent’s hand and thanked his coaches, but the joy in his eyes caused me to not just cry, but sob.  Tony quickly said, “Geez, Mom.  If you make it to Weight Watchers this week you’ll have lost ten pounds in just tears!”

If only.

The awesome part of the whole thing was that we packed our food.  The options for sale at these events were garbage.  Okay, yummy garbage like pizza and doughnuts and candy bars and nachos and….

Luckily, we packed grapes and raisins, turkey sandwiches and carrots and lots of water.

But this sort of grueling schedule complicates an already complicated schedule.  With all the wrestling stuff we also had to wrestle with the health issues of our dog, Rosie.  She had grown these horrible abscesses on her back and neck.  Our first vet said they were nothing to worry about.  He said they may leak, but we had nothing to be concerned about.  Well, the day before Thanksgiving the largest one on her back burst and she had to be taken in for emergency surgery.  My poor girl came back home completely out of it, drooling, shaking and with no control over her bladder or bowels.  The abscesses took two months to heal and broke open several times, requiring rounds and rounds of medication and creams.  She just got done going through her second surgery to correct the problem this week.  I’m happy to report that she is doing so much better this time.  The first time had us worried that our 10 year-old girl was traveling down the end road.  This time, she’s her usual spunky self.  Hope is in the air.

So, we are on the cusp of a normal schedule.  Wrestling season is over.  Rosie is recovering so much better this time.  This means I’ll be able to attend my meetings normally again.  Woo hoo!

I’m excited because I believe in the importance of attending my meetings.  I believe they help me stay focused and motivated.  For an introvert like me, they also force me out of my shell.  What isn’t good about any of that?

 

Divorce is not an option.

DISCLAIMER:  I am not the terrible writer that this post depicts.  WordPress would not separate my paragraphs for reasons known only to them.  Nothing I did to fix it stuck, so I apologize for any difficulty you have in reading this.

Let me lead by saying that I understand the need for divorce.  There are countless relationships the world over that need to be legally ended for more reasons than I can count.  Divorce is a necessary evil in many instances, one my own parents needed long before they actually got one.
That being said, I don’t understand divorce.
I am married to a man who works an unbelievable amount of hours on the 12-hour night shift at a local steel mill.  Jim misses more events than he attends.  He isn’t present for many of the little things.  The majority of my time is spent alone with our two sons.  I am the person responsible for maintaining their karate schedule, their wrestling schedule, and their drama schedule.  I make and keep their doctor appointments.  I take care of the house.  It’s my job.  I’m the stay-at-home-mom.
I get overwhelmed.  A lot.  We have good kids, but they are still kids.  They still argue that one has had five minutes longer to play video games, that the other has used up more than his fair share of hot water or that the allotted television time is unfair.  I tease my husband that we are raising good, union workers because I can’t tell you how many times I’ve asked one of them why something wasn’t done and heard the response “That’s not my job.”
It gets to be too much on some days, and those days are usually when my husband is working and there is no one else to lean on.  I white knuckle whatever I’m going through until the next morning when Jim arrives from work, bone weary, and I grab on to him, breathe him in and have a good cry.  He’s become accustomed to this reaction.  While he doesn’t relish the non-stop chatter that comes from my mouth on those mornings, he sees the need I have to go through the ritual of decompression.
It’s an odd system we’ve worked out, but it works for us.
Recently, a co-worker of his said he was contemplating divorce.
“Why?” I asked Jim.  I’m always saddened by the end of a marriage.
“She can’t handle how much he works,” Jim said, head turned down.
I was silent for a while.  I get how hard it is to be alone as much as spouses of Charter Steel workers are.  I’m not taking that away from anyone.  It’s a tough, tough gig and you have to be pretty secure in the team you’ve built to make it through.
It doesn’t seem fair, though.
I’m not touting that I have the perfect marriage, because I don’t.  I don’t know why what we have works.  It just does.  Who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?
What gets me is that life can be so much harder.  I’ve been on the “so much harder” side of things.  There are situations I’ve endured in my life that would have literally killed other people.  I know just how strong I have to be when forced.  The human spirit is unbelievably resilient and can endure so much more than our little minds think it can.  So when I see that down turned head it makes me think that Jim can see the reasoning behind giving up because of the job.
For me, that’s not an option.
I think there’s more worth fighting for in a relationship than just time.  Would I like to see my husband more?  Would I like him to have more time with the kids?  Would I like to have him there at night to snuggle up to?  Yes, yes, and yes.  But I don’t live in a perfect world and neither does anyone else I know.  We have to make the best of what we have.
That means that the time we do spend together has to especially rock.  It has to be the best of the best, because that’s all we have time for.  The kids get special alone time with dad when he gets home on the weekends from work, usually in the form of a breakfast out with dad and one kid on alternating mornings.  They make guy dates and do guy stuff, like going out for “gut bombs,” horribly greasy cheeseburgers and fries.  When the boys go off to school in the morning, I lay down next to my sleeping husband and snuggle up to him.  He doesn’t know I’m there, but I do.  That’s what matters to me.  We make it happen and we adjust.
It’s hard for me to think that divorce would be easier than just bucking up and dealing with the situation, finding a way to make it work.  What we have is worth fighting for.
What’s all this divorce talk got to do with weight loss?
Think about it.
We have to be married to our weight loss goals.  There are going to be ups and downs. There are going to be times that make you want to rip out your hair, scream, cry and give up.
But, when it’s all said and done, isn’t it still worth fighting for?
Sure, giving up SOUNDS easier.  But is it, really?
Stay married to your goal.  You’ll be so much happier.

The Magic Number

My magic number is 28.

No, it’s not pounds.

No, it’s not dress sizes.

It’s the number of years I

…fought an unknown condition.

…endured unbearable pain twice a month.

…spent thinking I was addicted to sugar.

…saw countless doctors who tried to convince me that my periods were normal and I was overly dramatic.

…took to gain the weight I now need to lose.

So, why do I think I’m going to beat this condition by doing exactly what I need to and have it play fair, when playing fair was never what it intended to do right out of the gate?  I am fastly embracing the idea that, for the first time in my life, I have a goal that I do NOT have complete control over.  Mrs. Type A Gargasz is having some trouble accepting that.

When I went to my meeting this evening the topic was:  What was going to be our big change this year and how were we going to break it down into smaller, bearable parts?

Good question.

I was good all week.  I weighed myself at home, obsessively, because I’m a little…okay, a lot…OCD.  It’s what I do.  Tuesday I was on track to have lost almost 6 pounds for the week.

Then I ovulated.

My official weigh in was  a loss of .8 pounds.  I wanted to scream.  I wanted to put on boxing gloves and beat the living shit out of something, anything.  If PCOS only had a face….

I walked into my meeting fighting back tears born of frustration and anger, conjured by my complete lack of control over my body.  I wanted to walk out.  I wanted to go to the bathroom and scream and cry.  I wanted to give up.

Then Stacy asked how I was.  All I could do was growl.  I didn’t want to get into the details because I felt a rant boiling just under the surface.  I simply told her my weigh in should have been better.  That, due to nothing I did wrong, it sucked and had only lost just under a pound.

Then she said to me, “Well, you LOST that because you did SOMETHING right.”

Her “rightness” washed over me.  While it would have been socially inappropriate for me to kiss the woman in public, it’s exactly what I felt like doing.

So, as the meeting wore on and Lynn, our fearless and loving leader, challenged us to find our big goal and break it down, the number 28 popped into my head and stayed there.  My goal became very clear.

Expectations:  My big change.

I have to change the expectations I have.  It has to be enough to expect to do my tracking, to follow my points, to be as active as I can in all the moments that I can.

I’m coming up on my year anniversary with Weight Watchers this May.  I’ve married my change to my broken down goal.

28 years.

That’s how long I took to get this way.

I cannot expect to lose it faster than that.

That doesn’t mean that I can give up fighting.  It simply means that I will not let PCOS win.  I will not let my expectations wane simply because my endocrine system has other plans.  That also doesn’t mean that I have to accept that daunting 28 year goal as the be all, end all.

You see, if I lose the weight before that goal of 28 years, then I win and PCOS loses.

I’ve got to take that goal one meal at a time, one day at a time.

So, PCOS, to you I say:

And not tomorrow, either.

 

 

 

 

Talking about talk: Let’s get positive!

I’ve been away awhile.  Wrestling, the holidays, my youngest son’s birthday and family issues swallowed me whole.  I haven’t even seen my best friend who lives five minutes away in so long that I don’t remember when we hung out last.

ALAS!  I have emerged from this mess and am writing again!

Jimmy, all covered in awesome sauce, whether he knows it or not.

While 2013 is still hanging on for dear life, it is also still working its horrible mojo on my family, most especially my Jimmy.  I just got done ferrying my oldest son back from his wrestling practice and the negativity spewing from his mouth broke my heart.  He has convinced himself that he is a terrible athlete.

“Mom, I’m not good at running.  I can’t catch a ball.  When I play football I can’t run and catch at the same time.  I’m just not good at it.”  When I countered with some positivity, all I got in response was a shake of his head and the retort, “You don’t understand.”

I know that as a parent of a teenager I’ve entered the land where all education I’ve had previous to this day counts for squat.  I know nothing.  I live in the land where all comments from me are rendered void simply because they were generated in my head and had the unfortunate luck of spilling from my own lips. I know.  This is the plight of every mother of teenage children, but it’s so much more.

First, it simply isn’t true.  We’ve enrolled our sons in sports for years, not because we have any dreams of them being multimillion dollar athletes.  We did it more to give these balls of energy an outlet other than making me bald.  Jimmy began flag football years ago when he was four.  In the beginning, he just ran from one end of the field to the other for about 45 minutes, making him blessedly tired.  Win in the parent column as far as I’m concerned.  A few years back he played flag football again and showed some potential.  His coaches even said, “James is our secret weapon.  The other kids pay no attention to him because he doesn’t look like an athlete, but he’s exactly where he needs to be.”  Was he saying my kid was the next Jerome Bettis?  No, just that he got the job done.  He wasn’t supposed to be the guy running the ball to the end zone and basking in the glory.  He was supposed to be the guy stopping the other team from doing that.  Always being the biggest kid in his age group (at 13 he’s a half an inch from 6 feet tall and nearly 200 pounds), I called him Man Mountain.  During one play his opponent was running toward him, and like a scene from a comedy, the kid ran head first into Jimmy and bounced off of him and landed flat on his back.  Jimmy didn’t even move.  Just watched the kid fall.  He was supposed to be the mountain and he did just that.

Last Saturday, he had a wrestling tournament.  Jimmy opposed a kid who was, admittedly, a dirty fighter, and the ref truly should have disqualified his opponent for just that reason.  The match was close and Jimmy lost by one point.  ONE POINT.  I tried to explain to him that other kids on his team literally got their proverbial butts handed to them, losing by sometimes more than 9 points.  It didn’t matter to him that it was a match well fought and a squeaker of a win.  All that mattered was the loss.  All that mattered was that his opponent won dirty.  When I said that it was a close match and that he did a good job, he threw his inhaler and nearly hit someone.  I was embarrassed, angry, sad and overwhelmed.  All I could say was, “YOU can’t control your opponent.  YOU can’t control your ref.  You CAN control YOU.  And THIS is not control.”  After apologizing profusely for what he did, I thought that he didn’t get that temper from me.  I am not responsible for that reaction.

However, I am.  I’m guilty as charged.

Why?

Negative talk.  I’ve taught this kid that he must be nice to everyone but himself, not by my words to him but about me.

When I make a quilt, I point out every crooked stitch, every mismatched seam, and every chopped off point.  When I cook, I make a list of all the things I should have done better.  When I write, I edit at least a hundred times and would edit a hundred more if Jim didn’t take them from me, literally hiding them so I can’t.  When someone needs me, I point out every way I failed them and how I could have been a better friend.  I’ve given my kid a crash course in How To Be Unkind To Yourself, and sadly, he’s passing with flying colors.

What does all this parenting talk have to do with weight loss?

Negative talk hinders weight loss.

How many times have we tried something on and said one of these phrases?

This makes me look so fat.

My butt looks huge in this!

Ugh, I look horrible.

I look like a sausage squeezed into this thing!

Whoa!  Too much cleavage!

Whoa!  Too much belly!

God, my legs are fat!

Maybe not those exact words, but you get the idea.  Every last one of us does it.  We negative talk ourselves right into the warm blanket called low self-esteem, making it easier and okay to lose the fight because, let’s face it, we suck, right?

Wrong.

We need to be kinder to ourselves.

We need to know that we can do it.

We need to know that weight fluctuates, but hard work pays off.

We are beautiful.

We are good at so many things.

Let’s make one of those things that we’re good at be treating ourselves better in 2014.  Every day start off by standing in front of the mirror and saying something positive to your reflection.  If you can’t do it, have your significant other stand next to you and say it to your reflection.  Look into your own eyes when he/she says it, and carry that like a mantra in your head throughout the day.

Be proactive.  Love yourself.

I’m headed to the mirror right now with my son.  I’m going to tell him something every single day.  Maybe he’ll listen and maybe he won’t, but if his head works anything like mine, his mother’s voice will pipe up from time to time.  Unlike mine, his mom will be saying positive things, lifting him up.

Lift yourself up, and watch closely.  Good things are bound to happen.

 

 

That hideous time of year

No.  I’m not a grinch.

I like Thanksgiving–sometimes too much.  I like Christmas (not so much the stress that comes with it).  It’s the time of year that sucks for me.  If I lived in Cuenca with my friends Kathy and Sara I’d experience this dreadful time in July.  And, as a side note, I feel like I talk and write about this subject too much, so I will not be offended if you sign off now and pretend you read the rest of this post.

I’m talking about the shortening of days, the waning of sunlight, the lessening of warmth and the increased desire to hibernate.  Those are all aspects of life that can make living difficult, but imagine dealing with that pile of loveliness with depression and anxiety as the cherries on top.  Then try to lose weight while doing it.  I’m pretty sure the folks on the Titanic are the only souls who understand that sinking feeling more than I do.

Losing weight while depressed is overwhelming all on its own.  Among the challenges are an irregular sleep schedule (I’m a night owl, always have been), an introverted personality (I don’t reach out, ever), lack of desire to do anything but sleep (couple this with insomnia and you get me–a lump in her jammies on the couch), and zero energy (ask me how much cleaning has been getting done, I dare you).  All of this adds up to either a feeding frenzy when I’m feeling sad, or, even worse, not eating at all.  You know you’re blue when the energy just to eat seems like someone just asked you to run a 5K.  Weight loss?  Enter status quo.

I’ve made no secret of the fact that my family is struggling these past few weeks.    The bottom fell out of our basket, so to speak.  There’s a busy school schedule for the kids, holiday madness, extended family madness, multiple weekly counseling sessions and holidays topped off with depression.  Add some anxiety issues to that and you get the wonderful slurry that is me.  Worry is something I do full time.  I worry for me, my kids, my family, my friends and people half a globe away that I have never and will never meet.  I am the gazillionaire of worry, baby.  If only gray hair, scary short finger nails, and twitchy behavior that rivals the overly caffeinated were dollars, away my money woes would blow.

You’d think not eating and being wired for sound would make for weight loss nirvana, but you’d be wrong.  Whatever primordial sludge made me works contrary to that thought.  I gain like a champ.  Once in a great while I’ll lose the arbitrary pound.  Just like I did last week.  Some silly little fairy magics me a negative (in a good way) weigh in and suddenly I’m thinking those depression-like thoughts:  The scale is off today.  Did I go to the bathroom before leaving home?  All that sweat from my winter coat explains that loss.  The woman behind that computer is new, so she obviously screwed up. It’s great living with the mental equivalent of the world’s most negative mother living inside your head.  Just dandy.

Tony, my zombie boy.

So what do I do this time of year to chase away the blues?  Nothing.  I haven’t found that mixture of goodness that makes it all better.  I muddle through.  Sometime in late March, early April, the fog begins to clear and I see hope in the form of sunshine on the horizon.  Until then, I go through the motions.  I lead the existence called Barely Hanging On.  I sleep more.  I play less.  I read until my eyeballs fall out.  I go through the motions of life half-connected.

This year I’m hoping to at least be aware of what goes into my mouth.  My meds are up to date and I’m taking them regularly (let’s not even SPEAK of how badly some of those are for weight loss).  I’ve got a third med on back up for days when I feel like the worry is going to make my head spin off.  In addition to all this, I’m going to rely on my friends, most especially my weight loss friends.  I’m going to depend on their understanding that the Miranda that is walking around is a zombie.  She’s there.  She’s talking.  She’s moving.  She’s just not herself.

Come spring, I’ll be fine.  Until then, expect a lot of shuffling and incoherent moaning.  I’ll lay off the brains.  They’re too high in points.

 

The promise of okay

So far this week has been…..fair.  My weight loss goals have still fallen by the wayside, but my mind is starting to get the hint.

A meme I found on Facebook.

Last week I was so depressed and so defeated feeling that just dragging my butt to the meeting was all I had left in me.  I honestly can’t tell you what the meeting was about last week, that’s how mentally there I was.  Just physically getting there was the only baby step I could handle.  All I remember is people talking about forks and I remember hugging AnnMarie.  An hour of my life and that’s all that got through.  So very sad.

However, this is a new week.  And I’m starting to feel a little better mentally.  My mind is becoming more aware of the damage this past month (it’s been THAT long) has caused, not just to my weight loss goals, but to my body.

My Grateful Dead shirt no longer fits.

My back hurts when I shop longer than 15 minutes.

I feel lethargic.

I feel bigger.

I am finally conscious of my food choices, and what bad ones I’ve been making.

Things with my family are—and I say this with crossed fingers and toes—beginning to stabilize.  It’s been a tough row to hoe for us, but some confidence is beginning to grow.  We hit rock bottom, took two steps forward and then promptly took three steps back.  But we’re crawling out of it.  I’m noticing smiles where before there were only tears and scowling.  I’m noticing mental growth and the dawning realization of accountability.  All of these are good things, and my heart is clinging ever so desperately to them.

Tomorrow is meeting night.  I’m going, and my goal is to be mentally present.  I’ve got my tracking book ready.  All the cake is gone in the house.  The fruit drawer is filled with grapes, apples and bananas.  There’s lean meat for sandwiches, oatmeal in the cupboard and Diet Dr. Pepper in the garage (a.k.a. the big fridge).  I’ve got what I need behind me and I’m ready.  I’m ready for my own accountability lesson.  I’m ready to focus on me instead of everyone else for a change.

I’m not going to lie.  It still feels selfish to focus on my weight loss when so much more requires my constant attention, but I’ve learned something this past week with the help of my friend, Renee, and my husband, Jim.  They each made me the same promise, even if they didn’t realize it.

I expressed to Jim that I felt like our family was falling apart.  He said to me, “We’ve been through worse and we made it.  We’ll make it through this, too.”  Then he got very serious.  Jim demanded, not simply requested, that I leave the house and do something fun this weekend.  He demanded that I hang out with Renee.  At first I thought he was a nut.  I just didn’t have time.  Then he said to me, “It’s important that you MAKE the time.  You need it.  I’m taking the choice away from you.  You.  Are.  Going.”

So, I spent a few hours hanging with my friend.  I talked with her about all these problems we’ve been facing and how my sense of stability has been shaken to its core.  I talked to her about my desire to keep things private, which is a flaw of mine, but one I cling to in moments of insecurity.  She was there for me.  Like she’s always been.  She listened.  Like she always has.  We spent some time with my boys reminiscing about when we were younger, sharing memories I had forgotten we shared.  Amid the laughter and sometimes tears, I discovered that my problems grow worse the more I keep them inside.  They become bigger and more unbearable the more I try to deal with them alone.

After coming home and getting the boys in the shower and off to birthday parties and dinner in their bellies, I remembered a fifteen-year-old me sitting in the hallway of our school with a sixteen-year-old Renee.  I shared with her that morning a secret I’d never shared with another living soul my entire life:  that I had a father who beat me and a mother who turned a blind eye.  I remember the weight that secret carried, the pain and fear behind that admission.  And just like Saturday, she put her arms around me, cried with me, told me she loved me and that it would be okay.

So, I begin anew tomorrow, because, sometimes it’s enough just to have the promise of okay.