Apparently, the persisting tightness of my pants is not all in my imagination. My last weigh-in this morning confirms what I feared - I'm slowly becoming... a whale.
No, not a cute, baby whale. A big, fat, blubbery, ugly one.
Okay, maybe that's a bit dramatic, but at 5' 4.5", I'm not tall enough to pull off a 150+ lb. weight. I've never been this heavy in all my life. I'm thoroughly disgusted with the weight gain especially because I know that I will have an even tougher time losing it, now that I have Fibromyalgia and Chronic Myofascial Pain preventing me from doing any meaningful exercise. I can do some walking and some stretching, but that's about it. Even after a walk, I've had to collapse from exhaustion upon my return home.
All you super heroes reading this probably think I'm pathetic. I might agree, but there's always that illness keeping me from blaming myself completely. Perhaps that's the problem I need to address. Although I can confidently blame Fibro for my pain and fatigue most times, I don't know that I can blame it completely for my fatness. I've caught myself eating or overeating to try to distract myself from my symptoms, or to give myself some enjoyment in a painfully frustrating day. It's not a bad thing to try to make myself feel happier, but turning to food - especially sweets and "bad" foods - is not a smart thing to do. Frankly, I'm surprised I could let something like this get the best of me for so long. Why did I wait to have this epiphany until now?
Staying on the wagons I've laid out has proven to be much easier said (or written, rather) than actually done. My flares are frequent and I never seem to know how I'm going to feel at any given minute. I may wake up okay, then be fighting tears by evening - or vice versa. I have skipped so many of my morning stretches, my strength-building exercises, and haven't done any regular walking or other aerobic activity, as I had planned. What's more, I've been skipping all the Calorie Count logging I thought I would be doing to help me monitor my intake. A little ice cream here, a couple beers there - and suddenly, I'm busting out of my jeans.
When I saw that horrid number on my scale this morning, I was going to keep this weight thing my dirty, little secret. I decided it would be far too embarrassing to tell anyone about this. I even considered removing that ladybug ticker from the bottom of this blog. But after thinking a bit about it, I decided this isn't the worst thing to be guilty of. Anyone with Fibromyalgia will certainly understand, as I'm sure the illness creates this problem for many of us as we struggle to survive the pain and fatigue and stress of life. I knew someone out there would know all too well how this happens, and perhaps offer me some support.
I'd like to rise above this thing I'd like to take this challenge and turn it into an opportunity to feel good about myself, instead of continuing to pity myself about how awful things are. Sure, I might fail, but I'm not going to know if I succeed unless I try. I'm going to try to do better and hopefully, once I can see any sort of progress, the momentum of success will help me to keep going.
That said, please do me a favor and don't offer me any donuts. I love food, especially desserts, but my allowance for these kinds of foods needs to be drastically reduced. Want to take a short walk with me? Care for some healthy veggies instead of that hamburger? Forgive me if I pass on your famous, homemade whatever. Believe me: I really do want to have it, but I've got to take care of my body before it gives out on both of us. I don't expect you all to change your behavior for me - I know you mean well. I'll just have to resist temptations a little better and be braver about risking flares for the greater good.