To say I was shocked would be an understatement. Again, I'm not sure what I had been thinking, but I guess I didn't realize how much I had gained.
Looking at myself next to my six-year-old, it finally occurred to me that I wasn't only damaging my OWN life, I was damaging the lives of my children. I mean, look at me. I was out of control in so many ways. I was passing horrible habits down to my children. I just didn't care. About much. Or anything. Or a LOT.
I am not joking when I say that, like THAT, I decided enough was enough.
I know people always say, "You won't do it until you're ready," and it's seen as a platitude or an excuse, but I truly believe it's the truth. You won't. You may consider it. You may start it. You may think you want it. But you don't and you won't and you don't again.
That was the end of May. By the beginning of June, I had started over.
At first, it wasn't a lot of changes all at once. I didn't think I could handle that, to be honest. I started by basically lowering my carbs. I didn't count calories or fat grams or protein or lettuce leaves. I counted carbs. My MAIN goal at the time was to keep my diabetes under control, but also to take it to the next level. My a1c was 6.2 at this point (I'll explain that business in another post - EXCITING, I KNOW!), but I wanted to get it lower.
I counted carbs and tried to move more and got myself down 30 pounds. I was super proud and excited and I felt as if I could do anything.
My sister and my mother visited in July. I know I didn't LOOK much different, but I felt so much better. I was able to handle doing more things than I had on their previous visits, and I just felt more in control. This affected my relationship with Mike (which I MAY get into at a later time if he is ok with it). In a good way! Being happy with MYSELF made me happier in so many other ways, and that creates a domino effect in that the people around me enjoyed my company more and then I felt even BETTER about myself. And so on. And so on. And then I shampooed my hair and told all of my friends about it and if that makes no sense to you, then you are officially too young.
***
So, this continued for a few months and I started having to buy new clothes and starting fitting better in things (like my car and chairs and THINGS in general). Stuff AND things, you know.
Intermission: If you are not morbidly obese, it may not occur to you that you look at everything before you sit in it, step on it, or lie on it. You nonchalantly check things out to see if you will fit, and if so, how uncomfortable will you be?
So, yes. That shit started to get better. Not perfect, but better.
***
In the middle of April, I had a regular appointment with my doctor. Blah blah blah, meds. Blah blah blah, possible menopause. Blah blah blah, weight and diabetes.
My weight was officially down 60 pounds and my a1c was 5.5. Both awesome numbers, but I still knew I needed more.
I really started clamping down on my calories and carbs and I have lost another 17 pounds since then (77 pounds total!). Totally proud and totally excited and not even the slightest bit modest about it.
And now I am here:
It has been SO hard. Food is my friend. For realsies. I love it. I love the way it tastes. I love the way it smells. I love how it smiles at me
and gives me little air kisses from the plate and tells me how pretty I am.
Putting some distance between myself and food was one of the hardest things I've done. And you guys, I had two c-sections, had staples rip out and new staples put in without any anesthetic of any kind, moved to effing CINCINNATI by myself, and lost the only father figure I ever had.
This was worse. I KNOW I sound melodramatic. And I probably am. But guys, I love food.
Only, food never loved me back.
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