*I’m writing this post for both of my blogs because it is equally pertinent to both.*
It’s gotten to that point again…the point I never thought I would be at again. The weight is slowly creeping up and has been for the last few years, ever since Charlie was born.
It comes so slowly that you don’t even notice it. A pound here, a pound there. Then you realize that you are tired all the time and you just don’t have the energy to do much. Just thinking about doing something *anything* makes you feel more tired. You’ll do anything to NOT step on the scale (I just ate, I just showered, I’m wearing too many clothes it won’t be accurate), but when you finally do the number staring back at you takes your breath away. And not in a good way. Not in a John Cusack holding a boombox outside of your window way. A sickening way.
Your clothes start to get tighter. It must have shrunk in the dryer. Then there is no denying it. They just don’t fit. You need new ones. You promise yourself you’ll just get one or two things until the weight comes off again and then you’ll reward yourself with brand new clothes to celebrate your hard work and perseverance. Waking up is a drag because you have no idea what to wear. Nothing really fits and nothing really looks good. Every outfit becomes a best effort, one that your throw an over-sized cardigan over and hope for the best.
Things hurt. Your body that you worked do hard to get healthy is now betraying you and groaning under the extra snacks and libations. Your knees hurt. Your hips hurt. It is hard to get comfortable and sleep well at night. You used to run miles after mile each week, now you loathe walking down the block when you don’t get a close parking spot.
You make promise after promise to yourself. You will get healthier. You will have energy again. You will stop hurting. You are two young to feel this way. 37 is too young to be falling apart.
But you’ll do it tomorrow. It’s always tomorrow. Because we always feel like we will have tomorrow.
I’m supposed to run the NYC marathon in 177 days. Fate, destiny, a higher power, luck, whatever you want to call it, has landed me this opportunity and I told myself this is what I needed to get back again. This would be my comeback. I would DO THIS.
But I have 177 days until this marathon and I haven’t run in weeks. And even though I used to run 10 miles at a time (albeit slow, but I did it), I know I can’t even run one anymore.
It breaks my heart. More than leaving my husband. More than my impending divorce. More than anything, this is what breaks my heart. That idea that I’m not who I used to be anymore. The idea that I am not who I am SUPPOSED to be anymore. The idea that I’m not who I was MEANT to be anymore.
It’s sobering and humiliating that I let it get this bad. That I crashed to the bottom once again only to feel that there is no way up at all this time. That I’ll tell myself I WILL get up and run tomorrow. And I WILL be healthier and happier for it.
And I don’t.
I want to but I don’t do it.
Even though I know I need to. I truly need to. To save myself before I’m swallowed up whole again.