So I’ll get the point quickly. I’ve let myself down. It’s not a hard thing to do – I’m a fucking bitch to myself. There might have even been tears. Also not a hard thing to do. I cry every time I hear the song Do You Want To Build A Snowman.
On paper I haven’t failed. I lost a small amount of weight and then put it back on again, I exercised and found a few pieces of clothing hiding in the back of the cupboard that I’m now a few kilos shy of actually fitting into. I’ve not gone backwards. I’m just not where I planned to be. I’m flailing. I did not exercise when I felt flat this week. Instead, I made a massive amount of mashed potato and a chocolate, banana bread. And I ate them. And I did not exercise. And I drank a bottle of wine and then I cried and then I wrote this blog post.
I am not a fucking weight loss machine. This is hard work. Unlike the movie says: everything is not “awesome”.
I want to give up.
For me to concentrate fully on getting into shape and watching what I’m eating and trying to exercise – I have to focus on it constantly. If I don’t, I stop. I’m finding it hard to do anything of actual worth to the world. I’m finding it hard to be outraged on social media, thus blogging. I’m finding it tiring to be an attentive mother when I’m hungry. Working is a chore. Sex – really? I’ve turned into a middle class, selfish, self absorbed prat? I was already one of them, but now I’m worse. How boring must my blog posts be? All woe is me, I want to fit into a size 14 outfit and I’ve also bitten off all my fingernails. Blah blah blah.
There are people in the world with actual problems. I’m a self obsessed bore.
But, I’m a person and this is something that matters to me. My health matters to me. My kids growing older with a mum who doesn’t have a heart attack or stroke, matters to me.
Why is my brain fucking with me? Isn’t this whole process meant to get easier? Why do I get to a point that I feel like I’m changing bad habits, that I’m turning a corner and then WHAM I fuck it up?
I’m so lucky to be alive, breathing the air, cuddling my kids, watching sunsets, planning trips, paying bills…laughing. I am not living in fear. I am not on a boat watching waves crash over my babies. I am not scared for life. I must stop complaining, but I’m still fucking sad.
NOTE TO SELF: Do not write a blog post at 11pm, after drinking a lot of wine and eating a bowl of mashed potato, followed by a slice of chocolate, banana cake, and then feel guilty and do a 20 minute session on the elliptical trainer. You will want to vomit.