The first time I wrote about my weight and put my number out there for people to see, I was like, "I'm me, and I might be big and I should probably change some shit but I'm really still in love with ice cream so...."
And then I just started to feel like shit. I was tired and cranky and felt depressed and didn't want to do anything. I thought maybe it was because I wasn't working, and then I was working so I thought maybe it was because I was stressed from the new job. Then I thought maybe it was the weather. Anything but the possibility that my eating habits would have anything to do with my health.
I went to the doctor. I was weighed in at 327. 3.2.7. That's so much. I mean, it's a LOT. And then I felt like shit in a different way.
I felt mad. Gross. I was embarrassed. I knew I had to change.
So I did. I stopped, cold turkey, eating my beloved ice cream. And bread, cake, cookies, candy, anything with carbs...and I started to feel a little better.
Three weeks passed and I went back to the doctor for a check in. I was weighed in at 322. Three weeks and five pounds. I felt like a failure. Mad. Gross. I was embarrassed. I knew I was changing but it wasn't enough. Then she told me about my blood test results.
It's a strong possibility that I have diabetes. I fucking gave myself the wretched disease that killed my mother. I KNEW better. Mom had juvenile diabetes-childhood onset and not dietary, but I still knew the risks. I was raised knowing all about diabetes because grandma had it too. I was surrounded by women affected by their diets. I knew eating candy for breakfast wasn't good for you...and I still ate whatever I wanted, feeling invincible I guess.
Ugh, so stupid.
I mean I REALLY should have known. I ate loaves of bread and triangles of brie cheese for god sakes. I ate whole pizzas, pints of ice cream and could polish off a box of doughnuts in two days. One if I was especially depressed. I ate huge portions and always cleaned my plate. Dinner wasn't complete without a big pile of potatoes/rice/pasta and bread on the side. I ate terribly and for a very long time. And I knew it was terrible. I just didn't stop.
Then she told me about my thyroid. Turns out it's messing with my metabolism and that too makes it challenging to lose weight. "You're fighting an uphill battle and still seeing improvement. I'm proud of you."
It helped immensely to hear that. I let myself feel the words on my drive home before I cried. I wasn't crying because I felt defeated anymore though. I cried because this is hard. It's literally changing your life. It's not just changing what you eat but how you shop, cook, and for me, how I celebrate or take comfort.
Gone are the days of Friday night with a pizza and a pint of Half-Baked. Gone are the Sunday mornings of pancakes or eggs benedict. No more stopping by the store on the way home and buying bags of candy to 'have on hand' only to devour in a day. I just can't do it anymore.
I won't.
I want to be proud of me too. I want to like myself and feel good and not just look good. I want to be able to put clothes on without scrutinizing every single angle, looking for bulges and rolls. I want to be able to be comfortable in my skin. And I want to get rid of the ominous threat of diabetes.
I already know this is hard. It's going to be that way for a long time and I get that. I will have to not only work on changing my lifestyle involving food, but in how I think. This is going to take time and I can't expect immediate results, no matter how badly I expect or want them. I will have to keep trying and when I feel like giving up-don't. I will have to forgive myself a little.
I will try. I will succeed. I will change. I will live. I will.
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