Starting in December, I started a morning routine that I forced myself to stick to no matter when I got up, or how little time I could devote to it. Once I crawled out of bed (me=/=morning person) I did the following:
- mix and drink a high-protein, low-carb shake
- meditate for at least 10 minutes
- work out for at least 10 minutes
Seven days a week I did this, and I feel have successfully made this all a habit now. If I skip any one element in the morning, weekdays or weekends, I miss it and feel off kilter all day. My meditation and workout times have increased, and I feel great. The shake first thing takes the edge off my hunger and I’ve noticed a marked improvement in satiety levels for the rest of the day.
Towards the end of December I also started cleaning up my diet. Over the course of my illnesses and stress in 2012 my eating habits had tanked, and while I wasn’t eating pizza every night I was eating wayyyyy too much other junk like ice cream, potato chips, and egg rolls. I gained weight, and started having gastric problems again. Predictable, if not less frustrating for it.
So what’s the point of this post? It’s to talk about change, and frustration. If there is one thing I wish I could change about myself it would be my fat deposits. I really can’t express adequately the level of hate I have for my body, how uncomfortable I am just sitting down or getting dressed. I read all the body-image positive blogs and articles and agree with them: beauty isn’t a size or a number.
Unless you’re me. Then it totally is.
The very wrong-headed diet advice of recent history — eat less! exercise more! — had me convinced that if I was not actively hungry, then I’m being unhealthy. If I’m wearing size 18 pants then that number haunts me ALL DAY. If my shirt is tight around my midriff, I obsess over it. If I eat more than 500 calories for lunch, I wallow in guilt all day. The only mirrors I own are placed so that they show me from my upper chest on up. Anything below my arm pits is literally so vile to me that it makes me upset to even see it.
“It” being my body.
But the stupid advice I always got about “dieting” actually made the problem worse. How cruel is that, to be given a rigged game and then told that it’s your own fault when you lose? It’s crazy-making, is what it is.
It’s hard for me to even write about any of this, because of shame. Shame for being fat, shame for trying not to be fat, shame for failing at diets that were never going to work, shame for trying to think it doesn’t matter.
The sad part is I want to be healthy, no matter what. That may mean being stuck at a size 18 for the rest of my life. I’ll be healthy, and that’s important. But I will always, always hate myself for it.
