Once a woman told me she had been on a diet since she was 18. Considering she was in her 50s at the time, this made me incredibly sad. I hadn’t been on a diet ever. (This was several years ago. I was 20.) It wasn’t very long after that I came to understand what she was talking about. I’m sure that when I’m in my 50s, I’ll be that woman making bitter comments about being on a diet for more than half my life, too.
Me and food? We have a love-hate relationship. I love food; food hates me.
I could get into a long drawn out history of my weight, but God, what a boring story. Here’s the gist. I’ve never been thin, but I was active. Well, “active” might be a stretch (I’ve always been the introverted, nose-stuck-in-a-book, rather-be-at-home type) but I’ve been working since I was 14 and didn’t have a car until I was 18. I never realized how much all that walking helped until I started driving. Between 18 and 20, my weight skyrocketed. At my heaviest I was just over 200 pounds.
Oh, wait, I seem to have forgotten something. Like exclamation points. 200 pounds!!!
People have asked me, “How did you not know?” I just didn’t. I never thought about it, never stepped on a scale or watched what I ate. I was a happy girl. I was happy enough with my appearance. It never occurred to me to be otherwise. Which, I suppose, could be considered a healthy frame of mind except that I was getting fatter and fatter every fucking day.
So, there I was. 200+ pounds. It was the first time I’d stepped on a scale in I don’t know how long. I was planning on getting married in just under a year. And that was the day, that day in December, that I started watching my weight for the rest of my life.
It took a while. 3-4 years, I think, but I’d have to go back and review a calendar and probably do something crazy like count if I wanted to be totally accurate. 3-4 years before I hit my goal. In 2008 I weighed in at 135 pounds. Pretty bad ass if I do say so myself.
Ironically (or not), it was the very next month that my husband and I separated for the first time. I’m sure there’s some correlation between my trying to better myself and our marriage falling apart but that’s too deep a subject to delve.
I kept the weight off for a while. But I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this. My weight since February of last year (you remember that February, right?) has shot up. And up and up and up. The bad habits crept back slowly… little things here and there to “make me feel better.” I wasn’t necessarily eating out of depression, but more so just because candy made me happy and after all the shit, I deserved a little happiness, didn’t I?
What a fucked up way to think. A little candy here and there turned into candy all the fucking time turned into just plain eating whatever the fuck I wanted. And I kept thinking I could get “back on track” anytime and get right back to 135, but guess what? Not as easy as you’d think. I know… shocking.
So, here’s the truth (because, aparently, it’ll set me free): I’ve gained back over 20 pounds.
Oops. Forgot the exclamation points again. 20 pounds!!!
So, I’m basically starting all over again. I have to change my way of thinking, recondition my body to eat less, expect less. When, really, I just wish I could keep eating all the candy I want. Recapturing the motivation I once had has been painfully difficult, but the drive is there. I want to lose this stupid weight (again). And maybe “they” (these so-called “experts” and “nutritionists”) are right- actually announcing your intentions will hold you accountable and help you reach your goals.
This is me announcing my intentions. I’m going to lose the effing weight. And you people… (imagine me staring you in the eye, my expression very serious) …you need to hold me accountable.