Learning to be okay with gradual progress
I'm an extremist. I wouldn't be the lifelong yo-yo dieter that I am if I wasn't. Everything is to the hilt. If I'm going to do it I am going to race toward it until it flames shoot out of my ass. I'm in my 40s now and this shit is not sustainable.
I've taken many falls, but the one in '98 permanently jacked up my left leg and low back. I hadn't connected all the dots until recently, but all of my re-occurring chronic pain has stemmed from those injuries. My sacral spine is compressed and my left sciatic nerve is impinged causing leg weakness and phantom pains deep through my thigh, knee and arch. I've spent my life on my feet doing heavy physical work moving bodies. It's been a battle.
But I'm not stupid. I am willing to change and learn. This has always been my saving grace. Well, now I'm locked in the epic battle of facing an aspect of myself that was once a survival habit that morphed into deep flaw. My extremism.
I don't talk about Texas the way most people don't talk about Fight Club. I survived it, I'm out, let's not focus on negative things. I spent most of my teens and 20s fighting depression, body dysmorphia, and rotating addictions that helped me check out of feeling my life. My extremism saved my life. I took myself to the very edge of self-destruction, looked over the edge and said, "Nah, fuck that."
I divorced my cheating husband, dyed my hair, packed my shit, and beat feet to California to find my new life. I called it "My Version of the Witness Relocation Program". I threw my cards down, flipped the table, and walked out.
It was exhilarating. I arrived here a tabula rasa (clean slate) and ready to embrace life.i.e. I ran and I ran hard. I had wasted two decades in fear and self-immolation. I felt that. I felt it hard, so I breathlessly pursued life. I went to live music shows, I surfed, I partied, I said, "Yes" to as much as I could. I went to Europe on my honeymoon and we've gone every two years since. I finished my journalism degree. I've lived.
I worked on myself. I would keep coming up injured every two years or so. I'd workout and I'd rehab. I did yoga, bellydancing, crossfit, judo, a running class, dance therapy, fencing, and I'm sure there are more I haven't bothered to remember.
I dieted. I did all the big name ones, a few detox classes, vegetarianism, and a gastric bypass. I got down to 187. I plateaued at 200 for a bit, with 24% body fat. BMI wise, I was normal. It was a banner fucking day for me. I'm a little embarrassed by how proud I was. I showed people the info sheet my trainer gave me. I still have it in a journal somewhere. I was statistically normal and not "morbidly obese". It meant something. It really did.
And I didn't feel it. My thighs had pockets of saggy skin, I could stick a 30 lb baby kangaroo in my belly pouch, my breasts looked like a pair of grapefruits in sweat socks and I could not hear people telling me how beautiful I was. I cringed at it. It was an acknowledgement of how subconsciously they, I, and everyone on the planet found fat people repulsive and I was better not being one of "THEM". I know this is self aggrandizing bullshit now, but I was too emotionally immature to understand that then.
Now, I KNOW I'm self-aggrandizing fool, who takes things way too personally and gets lost in negative scenarios in her head. I'm sitting on that bitch everyday trying to keep her from chewing through her restraints in my head.
Well, I'm back up to my high school weight of 290lbs after a 4 year backslide that was a combination of wine, cupcakes, repeat injuries, menopause, and old behaviors coming back. I averaged a 15 lb weight gain a year since 2014.
I was talking to my mom about her recent doctor visit and she shared with me how it went. The doctor was talking to her about her weight. (She's a 300lber like me, we struggle and hover around it. + or - around 30lbs usually) My father piped up, "I've been married to this woman for nigh onto 50 years. She has been on a diet this whole time. Why don't you talk to her about her health not her weight?"
Or something to that effect. She thought long and heavy on this and was pissed. She had spent her entire life, since she realized she had a body, fighting that body for dominance over it. We shared a laugh over it. Isn't life funny? The science approved message was the very thing that would sabotage our efforts later. We were winning the small battles, but diets were winning the war by turning our body against us. We promised we were done.
Health and mobility would be our focus. We were going commando diet-wise. We had a Ph.D. in calories and we knew the bad from the good down to the fucking glucose numbers. Fuck journals and life hacks. The hyper-focus fed my anxiety.
I've been doing light yoga and on Tuesday I started my rehab training again. My trainer/spirit sister Kim Ball had worked up 3-40 minute back rehab workouts for me back in 2017. (Yes. I was limping and using a cane Winter 2016-Spring 2017) I did workout 2 Thursday. I rested Wednesday and after I do this I'm going to do 20 minutes of light yoga.
I'm not pushing myself and I'm not going to. I'm not going to eat only organic raw vegetables. I'm not doing protein drinks or diet in any way. I'm not going to panic, criticize, or be disappointed in myself. My weight is not my worth. Gradual progress, strength and balance are my goals. It's like floating. If you thrash about, you'll sink. If you surrender and relax, you'll float.
I told my therapist I wanted to write a memoir called "There and Fat Again: A Yo-Yo Dieter's Memoir"
He responded, "Yes, Please!"
I've taken many falls, but the one in '98 permanently jacked up my left leg and low back. I hadn't connected all the dots until recently, but all of my re-occurring chronic pain has stemmed from those injuries. My sacral spine is compressed and my left sciatic nerve is impinged causing leg weakness and phantom pains deep through my thigh, knee and arch. I've spent my life on my feet doing heavy physical work moving bodies. It's been a battle.
But I'm not stupid. I am willing to change and learn. This has always been my saving grace. Well, now I'm locked in the epic battle of facing an aspect of myself that was once a survival habit that morphed into deep flaw. My extremism.
I don't talk about Texas the way most people don't talk about Fight Club. I survived it, I'm out, let's not focus on negative things. I spent most of my teens and 20s fighting depression, body dysmorphia, and rotating addictions that helped me check out of feeling my life. My extremism saved my life. I took myself to the very edge of self-destruction, looked over the edge and said, "Nah, fuck that."
I divorced my cheating husband, dyed my hair, packed my shit, and beat feet to California to find my new life. I called it "My Version of the Witness Relocation Program". I threw my cards down, flipped the table, and walked out.
It was exhilarating. I arrived here a tabula rasa (clean slate) and ready to embrace life.i.e. I ran and I ran hard. I had wasted two decades in fear and self-immolation. I felt that. I felt it hard, so I breathlessly pursued life. I went to live music shows, I surfed, I partied, I said, "Yes" to as much as I could. I went to Europe on my honeymoon and we've gone every two years since. I finished my journalism degree. I've lived.
I worked on myself. I would keep coming up injured every two years or so. I'd workout and I'd rehab. I did yoga, bellydancing, crossfit, judo, a running class, dance therapy, fencing, and I'm sure there are more I haven't bothered to remember.
I dieted. I did all the big name ones, a few detox classes, vegetarianism, and a gastric bypass. I got down to 187. I plateaued at 200 for a bit, with 24% body fat. BMI wise, I was normal. It was a banner fucking day for me. I'm a little embarrassed by how proud I was. I showed people the info sheet my trainer gave me. I still have it in a journal somewhere. I was statistically normal and not "morbidly obese". It meant something. It really did.
And I didn't feel it. My thighs had pockets of saggy skin, I could stick a 30 lb baby kangaroo in my belly pouch, my breasts looked like a pair of grapefruits in sweat socks and I could not hear people telling me how beautiful I was. I cringed at it. It was an acknowledgement of how subconsciously they, I, and everyone on the planet found fat people repulsive and I was better not being one of "THEM". I know this is self aggrandizing bullshit now, but I was too emotionally immature to understand that then.
Now, I KNOW I'm self-aggrandizing fool, who takes things way too personally and gets lost in negative scenarios in her head. I'm sitting on that bitch everyday trying to keep her from chewing through her restraints in my head.
Well, I'm back up to my high school weight of 290lbs after a 4 year backslide that was a combination of wine, cupcakes, repeat injuries, menopause, and old behaviors coming back. I averaged a 15 lb weight gain a year since 2014.
I was talking to my mom about her recent doctor visit and she shared with me how it went. The doctor was talking to her about her weight. (She's a 300lber like me, we struggle and hover around it. + or - around 30lbs usually) My father piped up, "I've been married to this woman for nigh onto 50 years. She has been on a diet this whole time. Why don't you talk to her about her health not her weight?"
Or something to that effect. She thought long and heavy on this and was pissed. She had spent her entire life, since she realized she had a body, fighting that body for dominance over it. We shared a laugh over it. Isn't life funny? The science approved message was the very thing that would sabotage our efforts later. We were winning the small battles, but diets were winning the war by turning our body against us. We promised we were done.
Health and mobility would be our focus. We were going commando diet-wise. We had a Ph.D. in calories and we knew the bad from the good down to the fucking glucose numbers. Fuck journals and life hacks. The hyper-focus fed my anxiety.
I've been doing light yoga and on Tuesday I started my rehab training again. My trainer/spirit sister Kim Ball had worked up 3-40 minute back rehab workouts for me back in 2017. (Yes. I was limping and using a cane Winter 2016-Spring 2017) I did workout 2 Thursday. I rested Wednesday and after I do this I'm going to do 20 minutes of light yoga.
I'm not pushing myself and I'm not going to. I'm not going to eat only organic raw vegetables. I'm not doing protein drinks or diet in any way. I'm not going to panic, criticize, or be disappointed in myself. My weight is not my worth. Gradual progress, strength and balance are my goals. It's like floating. If you thrash about, you'll sink. If you surrender and relax, you'll float.
I told my therapist I wanted to write a memoir called "There and Fat Again: A Yo-Yo Dieter's Memoir"
He responded, "Yes, Please!"
You’re one of the strongest women I know and you should write memoir for yourself and all of us yo yo dieters. I’m glad to see you are learning to be kinder to yourself, the self disgust is a killer. I started losing weight when I QUIT dieting. Don’t know if I’ll ever get to a place of total acceptance of my body and all it’s sagging skin and wrinkles, but for the moment I’m pretty close and am happy and grateful to be here. Love you with all my heart. Fat, skinny, blonde, redhead, Eda is a mighty woman, don’t ever forget that!
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