Disclaimer: This started as a post of July goals, and turned into a confessional. Sorry.
The past two months have been a whirlwind of stress, “exceptions” and poor choices. I’ve slipped back into unhealthy thoughts and habits.
I also weigh more than I have in years. In fact, I’m back at my blog’s SW, bouncing between 127 and 130.
I’m 5’8”. I recognize that this is a totally healthy weight for me. But in August/September, I was around 113/4. I also recognize that that is totally not a healthy weight for me. I don’t want to be back there. But it’s really, really scary knowing that I’ve packed on around 15 pounds in such a short amount of time (I was at 121 in the first week of May). That is a testament to some really unhealthy (both physically and mentally) habits I’ve “rediscovered.”
For those of you who have followed my blog for a bit, it’s not a secret that I have some issues with eating. I haven’t written about this since I’ve been back—mostly because I keep trying to pretend that it’ll go away. It isn’t, and it won’t. In fact, it’s getting worse.
It is really hard for me to know that I have regressed. I worked so. fucking. hard. And in a matter of months, I (feel like I) undid “everything.” I ate my feelings. I punished with food. I self-sabotaged. I guilt tripped. Etc. Etc. Etc.
In my heart—and my head—I know I should cut myself some slack.
I was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis—halting exercise and crippling me, mentally. I went nearly a year with a neuroma before finally having surgery, putting me in a boot for two months. I started a new job. I bought a house. I mourned the loss of my grandmother.
But at what point do these become excuses? Excuses to binge, excuses to punish, excuses to forget who I worked so hard to become.
This cycle needs to end. Now. I am so, so tired of beating myself up.