I hate how I look...
...but I love how I feel.
I roll out of bed and walk to the closet. I look for something- anything that will fit. I am defeated. I run away to the bathroom, where I wash my face and put my hair up. I go back to the closet- and run away again to start some laundry. I realize that I am doing chores in my underwear, in front of all my open blinds. Back to the closet and quick!
I search for the faded black jeans that I bought forever ago, because they are the largest ones I own. I jump into them and- I can barely button them up. Seriously? Has it really come to this?
20 pounds in 6 months. Really.
"This is serious" I say to myself as I sit on my bed, "I need to do something."
Half of it I have gained from quitting the job that had me standing all day, running up and down stairs, and lifting heavy boxes. The other half is from me not suffering from this stupid and very lame condition anymore. It's nothing serious- my dad has it, I have it, and no, I really don't want to tell you all the hairy details. (gross and embarrassing) I am just very very grateful that I found a solution that works. Since figuring it all out, I am 100% symptom free, and 10 pounds heavier.
I get up in the morning, and I debate whether or not to exercise. "Just 10 pounds" I say, "then I will fit into my clothes again." Sometimes I do, mostly I don't. I wear my comfy pants all day. I don't go out. I only have like 2 outfits that I can fit into. I am embarrassed about my appearance. Gaining that much weight in that amount of time usually means one thing- baby weight. (nope, no babies.) I don't want to go out and run into anyone I know and have to explain that I am indeed not expecting, just chubby. (like anyone would ask anyway.)
All my life, I couldn't stand any kind of physical activity- I would get nauseous, my ears would burn, my head would pound, I couldn't breathe. My doctors have always said that my depression would get better if I would exercise regularly. But I hated it, it made me sick. It never made me feel better. And, I was skinny. I had no motivation to exercise.
But now I do. And the strange thing is, I kinda crave some physical activity. When we were in San Fran, and I walked and walked till my leg muscles were shot, and it was 50-60 degree weather, I was in heaven. I was sore but didn't care. Walking warmed me up and I wasn't cold.
Speaking of which- I don't get cold all the time anymore. It's been so nice- I have really enjoyed climbing into bed with my husband wearing a tank top and not much else. Whereas before I would have to wear sweatpants, socks and a hoodie to bed. Oh, and usually an extra blanket. I have found (to my husbands delight) that sleeping is more comfortable without the comfy pants- who knew?
And a little TMI. I really like having boobs. And an ass. Not much of one, but still. A little curve in my shape make me feel good.
And the battle goes on. I wake up and I hate myself, so I sit around making it worse. But at the end of the day (literally, when I am in bed with Danny in my tank top) I like myself. I feel great. I am warm. I have a great attitude. I don't want to lose the weight that makes me feel so much better.
But then the morning comes, and nothing fits. Yesterday I put on my Sturgis tee shirt. It's been huge on me ever since my brother gave it to me 6 years ago. Yesterday, it fit. Perfectly. I almost cried. I hate my chubby face. I have always thought my face looked fat, even when I definitely wasn't. And I know that really, I'm not fat at all- I just feel that way when I am trying to squish into clothes that are too small. And who wants to buy bigger clothes? Not me. Not jobless moneyless me.
I took a real good look at my body in the bathroom mirror this afternoon. A little curvy. A little squishy.
But I don't care. I like it, and it feels right. I feel like I have finally found myself. I would much rather be healthy and happy, than skinny and miserable. And after a while, I may even grow to love my fat face.
And then I think "WTF? Am I crazy? Really, I am okay with this?" Breathe. Yes I am.
So I talked to my husband. I told him how I felt, holding my breath that he would feel the same. And he does. Phew! But the hard part?
"So, um. Honey? That means that I need some new clothes. I mean ALL new clothes. And I will need you to buy them for me. You know, cause I am jobless."
This is not the kind of shopping spree that I have always dreamed of. But it's a shopping spree nonetheless.