Ugh. I haven't mentioned Jenny Craig in awhile because I quit ordering the food when I went part-time, it's just too pricey for me to justify when I'm reducing my salary by a third. But, man, I am struggling. Last night, as I tossed and turned to find a position where the weight of my gut didn't pull on my back causing me pain not unlike labor, I felt like a manatee stuck on a sandbar, desperately trying to push its gi-normous self back in the water.
There is no haven from this shame. Even in the dark cover of night I burn with the frustration that tomorrow is another day I wake up a chubbs and go to bed even chubbier.
It doesn't help that I'm married to Mr. Work-out Everyday and Eat Lots of Fish Because It's low-fat. Bastard. Why couldn't I have married a fat, lazy sloth to compliment my inner-manatee? His "example" of perfection does not have the motivating effect on me my Husband intends.
I feel a little guilty because when we met I was on the smaller side and also worked out, so, technically, he got robbed. Ah, life has a cruel sense of humor and I'm often the punch line.
My fist-fight with weight started when I was about seven and I've been on the losing end ever since. I hit my peak of porker at twenty-one when two things happened that helped me get the edge in the battle of the bulge: 1) my first male admirer came on to me at a gas station, a trucker with a mesh cap and a rebel flag tee-shirt; and 2) my best friend said I was becoming a miserable human being that no one, including her, wanted to be around.
Though I have nothing against truckers, seeing myself as a pork rhine-eatin, truckin side-kick with the call sign Big Mamma, scared the crap out of me. And having your dearest friend tell you to pull your head out of your ass can really have an impact, a head-pullin-out-of-ass impact.
I promptly committed to losing weight and losing a lot of it. I bought my first work-out video (Richard Simmons' Sweatin to the Oldies) and lots of frozen chicken. I even begged my mother to let me withdraw form the spring semester of school so I could focus on my battle plan, and bless her, she agreed. I did not let her down. I ate nutritionally and carefully. I worked-out twice a day, soon progressing past Richard and his sparkly shorts to the MTV Grind work out with that Eric guy from the first Real World. I also drank a gallon of water a day, sometimes literally. I don't recommend that much water because it leaks out of you when you least expect it.
So by the time I left college for law school where I met Husband, I'd lost 140pounds. I'd also picked up an eating disorder when stress related to my grandmother's death threatened to turn the fat-tide against me.
But, something happens when you fall in love. Some people lose their appetite and some people lose all sense of portion control. Guess which variety I am? And since I can't have over-eating without sloth like behavior, the exercise soon went by the wayside.
The weight really took off once we got engaged. I'm one of those rare brides that actually gained weight before the wedding. The weight continued to creep back on during the first five years of marriage and then just as I started to get control of myself I got pregnant. No more control.
We waited three years to have the second kid and during those three years I fought back against the weight with depression, not the best defense. I started seeing a therapist and, once again, I started to get control. Then Husband date raped me, getting me knocked-up in one shot.
Here I am, fat and unhappy. I wish I could love everything about myself just as I am, but that's impossible for me. Trust, I've tried. My anxiety, distress, and pain related to my weight is as natural to me as breathing. As I've mentioned before, if I didn't have this black hole of despair eating at me I might not know myself. Still, I want to break free of these carbohydrate chains because I can't feel happiness. No matter what joy there is in my life, what wonderful thing happens, I can't feel it deep down because I'm too filled with shame and self-loathing. And to be honest, because I have an image of true happiness and it involves thin people.
You may wonder why, if therapy helped me before, don't I go back and try again? Because, I'm stubborn. I want to do it all on my own! Except I'd take it any way I could get it, including, but not limited to, a fairy god mother, tape worm, or being partially eaten by a zombie. Maybe I'd better be making a phone call to Nancy the Therapist. Maybe.
It's either get a grip or jump off my roof and see if I can make a crevasse deep enough for a swimming pool.