Fear and loathing in NashVegas
My apologies to Hunter S. Thompson for making a play on the title of his amazing novel. Maybe someday, when I grow up, I might be half the journalist he was.Maybe.
The cutesy play on words was my attempt at being funny about a subject that has ceased being funny.
Many moons ago, I used to jokingly tell people my weight loss plan was to get so fat that Richard Simmons had to come and save me. It was a joke, of course, and people would laugh. But, Richard is a pretty inspirational guy, and while I'm glad he's never come to my house with a crane, maybe I could use one of his pep talks.
Hell, I'd even sweat to the oldies if he asked me. I just draw the line at wearing short shorts like he does.
All kidding aside, I'm not sure what I'm going to do. Normally when I feel like this, I at least come up with a plan on what I'm going to do to get all this weight off. Probably half the time that plan gets discarded with some empty Cheetos bags, but at the knowledge that I'd eventually try again was always there. Maybe the Cheetos would be, maybe not.
This time, I've gotten shot down, and I'm not really interested in getting up. Yes, I'm distressed at the fact that my clothes don't fit and my ass is the size of a house. Yes, I'm distressed that it's getting harder to navigate a flight of stairs. Yes, I worry that I'm going to make myself sick because I can't get better.
It's all there, and then I just file it away and stop caring.
I have hit the portion of our program where I feel completely and totally hopeless. Where I realize that I could work my ass off and lose weight, but I'm just going to gain it all back and have to do it again, so I'm not really sure what the point is. Sounds like a big waste of time.
I was in a different place less than 24 hours ago. I was going to go to the pool. I was looking at running shoes. I'd even made up my mind that I might try a half marathon again, figuring if I gave myself nine months to train I'd be fine. After all, I did it in five months last time.
Now, I'm in my office with the door closed, crying, and typing this on my lunch break because I have absolutely no desire to eat. Yes, I know that's not healthy, but at the same time I know that I'd have to go many, many days without eating before it would be an issue. I also know that last time I felt so shitty I lost all desire to eat I lost 20 pounds in 28 days. Yeah, I was so weak I could barely get up the stairs in my house, but I looked great.
It's been a long time since I hated myself, and I'm pretty much there right now. It's been so long that I don't know how to fix it. And perhaps more frightening, I'm not sure I want to fix it.
I spend so much time in my little clueless vacuum thinking that people who dislike me because of my weight are the people who have a problem. I'm beginning to suspect that I'm wrong.
Maybe I need to hate myself so I'll want to do something about it. Maybe that's what it takes to get away from the Cheetos.
I don't know anymore. I don't know about anything. I think I've just reached the point where I'm shutting down and disconnecting. I'm sure that can't be healthy, but neither is being the size of a small heifer (hiefer? That's a hard word to spell.).
Maybe I'm just in a funk. I ran out of anti-depressants and I'm still debating what to do about my prescription because of this new HSA we have at work. But, maybe, the clock has just run out.
No idea. Not even sure why I'm saying this, although I do feel well enough to put the tissues away.
Progress, I say. All I know is that I'm not buying new pants, so I need to come up with a plan.
A real one. Not some bullshit plan that involves Cheetos.
posted by Laura at
12:47 PM
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