Eating My Way Fat

I am fat.  This is pretty obvious, but it's still hard for me to admit.  I wear my weight *very* well and know how to dress it to hide it.  I'm not saying I don't look overweight; I do.  I just don't look as heavy as I am.  Even my docs say I don't look that big.  But this year is about truth.  The truth is, I take lots of pictures and find the ones that I think make me look smaller.  I know I've always done that to some extent--picking pictures that make me feel pretty, or at least prettier--but one of the things about finding my truth is peeling back the layers, removing the veneer, and exposing myself.  I need to look at things in the hard light of day.  So, here it is.  

I weigh 265 pounds.  My BMI is 38.  I was startled to discover that I am only a few pounds away from a classification of "clinically severe obesity".  I am already at an increased risk of diabetes, not just from my weight, but having had gestational diabetes--twice.  I am also a comfort eater.  I eat to make myself feel better.  I eat to reward myself for a job well-done.  I eat when I'm bored.  I love sugar and fat.  There are times I can eat just a little of something "bad," but more often than not, I cannot control myself.  I have come to understand the struggle of addiction.  I *know* I shouldn't eat something.  I *know* I will hate myself after I eat it.  I *know* I will feel miserable when I weigh myself.  I *know* it's bad for my health.  None of that stops me from shoveling it into my mouth anyway.  The more difficult thing about food addiction is that there is no going "cold-turkey."  No complete abstinence.  You can't rid your house, or your life, of all food.  You also can't just stop going places where it's available.  Food, particularly junk food, is ever present.  You *have* to find a way to moderate yourself.  This is, and has always been, my biggest struggle.  

In the past, the solution for me has not been to stop eating the junk entirely.  Rather, I would exercise to compensate.  It's not a perfect solution, but it's better than my current combination of eating crap and *not* exercising.  So, I'm going to make time for exercise.  I have chosen to motivate myself by signing up for a mini-marathon in May.  That's 13.1 miles.  I have done 3 half-marathons before, so I know I am capable of doing it.  It's just a question of getting my body back in a condition to get it done.  And, to keep myself moving forward, I am already verbally committed to do another one next January.  My plan will be to complete at least two half-marathons each year to keep myself in better health.

In the process, I expect I will release some weight (I call it releasing instead of losing because I usually end up looking for things I've lost).  According to the BMI calculators, I should weigh no more than 173.  That's 92 pounds from where I am, and a weight I haven't seen since I got married.  Since little goals are easier to achieve, I have set myself the following benchmarks:  240, 220, 200, 180.  At each benchmark, I get to reward myself, but not with food, or a day off of exercise.  I haven't figured out what my reward will be yet, but I have some time to figure it out--about 25 pounds worth of time.

Here's the thing.  I want you to hold me accountable.  To those of you who are friends on Facebook, I will be posting my workouts using Map My Run.  If you think I have started slacking, feel free to call me on it.  I will post a starting picture and then at least a monthly picture.  I will also post updates here.  Since my word this year is truth, my plan is to post the good and the bad.  I want to be honest about my struggle and how I'm trying to make myself better.  So, that's part of my plan for this year.  Stripping away fat; stripping away layers of camouflage; and finding the true me hiding underneath.  I hope you'll join and support me.

Me at 265:

An Addiction to Hope

It's been a rough week for me as, every other day, I have learned of another friend, relative, or co-worker who is in their first trimester of pregnancy.  And, although it may not be my first thought, I am truly happy for them.  Knowing first hand how horrible infertility is, I don't wish it on anyone.  Still, hearing the news when I am still raw and not yet through this month of loss (next week would have been my due date with Oliver), I just get angry at the unfairness of it all. I also get cranky because I hate being told no.  I am one of those people who will stubborn my way through to anything I *really* want and being told "no" only makes me work that much harder.  All of which helps explain why, late last night, I was reconsidering our decision to stop IVF.

Now, please understand, cognitively, I have no desire to try again.  I hate the shots and the roller coaster and the waiting.  I hate not being able to plan vacations or use leave time in case I need it for maternity leave.  I get anxious at the idea of having to be pregnant while Lil' Bit goes in for another heart catheterization next spring.  But, being bombarded with all these pregnancies, on top of viscerally feeling the loss of Oliver, and, at least emotionally, all I want is another child.

Finding myself confused about holding both of these diametrically opposed positions, I consulted my "IVF Bible"--The Infertility Survival Handbook by Elizabeth Swire Falker [I highly recommend it for anyone suffering with infertility!].  In it, there is a chapter on how to know when to stop, and she points out that fertility treatments are addictive:  "[R]eproductive technology offers perpetual hope of having a child.  It's almost impossible to walk away from that."  And she's exactly right.  You are forever asking yourself if the next time would be the time that worked.  In addition, there are stories of women who have undergone six or more fresh IVF cycles, and however many attendant FET cycles, before achieving their goal.  It's quite easy, especially for those of us who want to push through and do whatever it takes to get what we want, to slip into a never-ending cycle of treatments.

As I tried to explain all of this to Phil this morning--not because I necessarily want to renegotiate our agreement, but because I wanted to communicate with him where I was (after all, he doesn't know unless I tell him!)--I realized that I was stuck.  I am having a difficult time releasing the energy I have invested in having another child.  However, I am fairly certain that once I have my hysterectomy, I will be able to let go.  There are no more one-in-a-million shots at a miracle child.  There is no more possibility of changing our minds and trying one more round.  I will be physically incapable of achieving pregnancy.  Period.  Then, and only then, will I be able to let go of the energy I have invested in having another child.  Until that point, I am, for better or worse, irrevocably addicted to hope.  And nothing, not our agreement, not poverty, not my infertility, not even common sense, will stop me from hoping against hope that something will change and pregnancy will come.  Which, unfortunately, also means that my real healing may not begin until then.  Instead, every month, until I am proven wrong, I continue to have unreasonable hope that I could be pregnant.  Is it rational?  No, but addictions never are.  And, it appears that nothing short of impossibility will fix it.  Until that time, I still have it within my power to try and to hope against all hope.  And, as long as there is something within my power that I can do, I can't give up.  That's just my nature.  It doesn't mean I'm not going to try to to heal until that happens.  But, at the same time, I have to be honest with myself.  So, this is me, being honest about where I am; about being stuck; about being addicted--to hope.