I hate my ass. There. I said it. It was a picture of
my fat ass me riding a bike, taken by a friend who was riding behind, combined with my reentry into the lifestyle, that forced me to recognize the truth about my weight and act on it.
I lost more than 60 pounds over the course of a year and adapted as much of a healthy lifestyle as someone who despises vegetables and hates exercise possibly can. Then, 2015 happened. I had multiple, back-to-back health issues that prevented me from sticking to my workout schedule. I watched a few pounds creep back on.
This year, in January, one month after my renewed resolve to get back on the workout train, I exacerbated an injury and found myself in bed for three days, laying there crying. It was the first time I couldn’t get any relief from this particular ailment just by being still. It was horrific. I haven’t worked out since. I’m terrified. I can’t do that pain again.
Not long after I got back on my feet, my world exploded. The dust has cleared. The rubble mostly swept up, though watch out for those missed pieces because they will cut you when you least expect it. Reconstruction has not yet begun. I don’t believe the world will ever look the same as it was in the before. I am hopeful that maybe, maybe, the future won’t be as bleak as it first appeared, while still unable to assess the wreckage through the tears. A few more pounds were added to the scale.
Then, this past week, again, BOOM. Different people. Very similar themes. Again, I blame myself, because that’s what I do. This time, most of the blame truly is likely mine to own. It’s heavy. Crushing really. I feel like Atlas about to be demolished under the weight of it.
What does this have to do with my ass? Also this week, I reverted to old patterns. I could no longer resist the medicinal call of junk food. I did not buy my gateway drug: Donuts. I did buy the largest bag of potato chips I could find. And a breakfast danish thing. And a theater size box of Whoppers. I unpacked the groceries when I got home and realized I hadn’t bought any real food. I hadn’t given a thought to menu planning. I provided for the needs of the boy but it looked like the adults in the house were shit out of luck. Worse, I had not one fuck to give. If I’m being honest, I still don’t.
This morning, while catching up on my blog list, there was Drew, talking about his body image issues and the things he has found don’t work for him in his quest for fitness. I sighed and thought “Yep. Right there with ya buddy.”
So, I’m getting back on the horse. I’m pretty damn sure that my old and busted body won’t tolerate my preferred method of exercise but I can no longer use that as an excuse to do nothing. I will be doing something. Every day. It’s going to suck. I’m deeply unhappy. All I want to do is crawl into my bed, binge watch Supernatural, and eat myself into oblivion. There may be, hell, there will be, days that doing a few donkey kicks is all I can manage. I will never forgive myself if I undo all the hard work that got my body to this point. God knows I don’t need another reason to be unhappy with myself.
I’m doing this. Just as soon as I’ve eaten every last crumb of the crap I bought this week … which shouldn’t take long at all.