A Storia Continua…
So time went on…I was getting a bit less depressed, but I of course I confused “feeling good” with “eating a lot” especially in the gourmet restaurants of Arlington, Virginia. And there was essentially nobody who held me accountable, I mean my mum and dad’s admonitions were pretty much just background buzzing to me, I mean – it hadn’t done much good until then so why would it now.
My beloved husband C came into my life then, first on line, then when he finally came to America to live with my I really was happy. He tried to support me when I declared I wanted to lose weight but the responsibility really wasn’t and isn’t his. Plus I can see he’s torn between wanting what’s best for me, what I demand (either whiningly or forcefully), and his love for me. As I say it’s really unfair and difficult the position he’s in. But I love his support for my good impulses.
A few years ago, my doctor told me that I should look into bariatric surgery. The idea intrigued me but the prospect of the battle with the insurance company, and anesthetic (!) scared me. Plus part of me wasn’t sure that I could really ‘live’ only eating a cup or so of food a meal. So I made a bargain with…um…many people, some real, some not, that I’d try weight watchers really strictly and exercise and see if that didn’t lose me some weight.
So I joined WW, and engaged a very tall personal trainer to get me out of the house and onto my feet. And I did really well; at first I could only walk six minutes before having to sit down and catch my breath; I got up to sixty minutes at a time. But he didn’t like the idea of strength training and I did. Come winter, I conquered my fear of the gym and actually went to one, and began working out, mainly on the treadmills. And everything went well, for a while. (See a pattern?)
We had to ramp the personal trainer down from twice a week to once, and then ‘let him go.’ And things haven’t held together all that well; I am too lazy, erm, unmotivated. But I did still sometimes make it to the gym and stuff and I still felt okay about things. Of course, eating was still my bête noir. Again, I lacked any form of accountability; I skipped out on WW whenever I felt like it, soaked up the praise when I ‘did good’ and whined about my ‘life story’ when I overate, and generally made an utter joke about what I was trying to do.
Recently even that fell by the wayside: (1) I had a nasty ankle condition that wound up with doctor’s order to stay off the treadmill which I used to (2) excuse myself from eating well which directly or indirectly (3) caused me to revert, emotionally back to where I was when I started; happy to spend money on fitness, feeling alienated from the gym, feeling ‘not as good’ as the guys there, feeling like all I can/want to do is eat and pretend that I’ll do something about it all manyana which never comes.
Okay, so my counsellor wants me to consider whether or not I will be alive in oh, say five or ten years. Statistically, actuarially, I won’t be. So why’m I not scared? I’m a ticking time-bomb for a heart attack, a stroke, degenerative disk disease, diabetes at the least. It’s not really a question of if I will succumb to one of these conditions, but when. And that when can’t be far off.
Oddly, I seem to be a kid in this area, and in many areas. I have the same attitude that my Godson has; I hide behind the effects of my irresponsible behaviour by figuring it can never happen to me. He smokes, which I consider crazy due to its health effects; I stay heavy, which anyone else would. In fact, my counsellor has asked me to do the following:
1) Take a picture of myself now, mostly naked, quite objectively. (For one of the fitness programs I’ve bought and am a bit enthusiastic about following because again, I’ll have constant qualified cheerleading, although I guess that could be mere exteriorization of motivation and doom me to fail).
2) Compare that to any pictures of myself pre-bloat (which will be hard to find) when I was thinner or at least closer to normal sized.
3) Work out how I can be less child-like in my thinking (with relation to my self-destructive eating and exercising, and my parents).
(All this by the 27th!)
More to come!