My Body Is Fighting Me

Hi.

I think in one of the few entries I typed out this month, I mentioned that I'd like to be below 250 before the month's end.

I thought that was possible.

I got cocky, I guess. Or hopeful.

It didn't happen.

In fact, it really didn't happen, and I think I've left this month at the same place as I came in. On one hand that is good. On the other it feels like gaining. In trying to look on the brighter side, this morning I had a thought - maybe I'll reset my "normal" - and it helped me feel a bit better.

Something about hitting a weight and maintaining it for a bit. Maybe it resets the body a bit, and mine will hold this weight as a new normal. Instead of feeling like it has to struggle back to 330, 298, or 265. Those are all places I seemed to stick.

One can hope.

I was at the doctor (endocrinologist), and basically it was a waste of time, but she did say something that made sense. I was telling her how hard it was for me to lose weight, she told me it was hard for everyone to lose weight. I really wanted to slap her and ask her if it's harder for someone who is 150 to go to 130 or 338 to go to 190 - and why some of us are double-people-sized fat, and some never get there, and if there might be something to that. But maybe I'm just sensitive.

She pointed out that I was losing.
I agreed.
I told her how crappy I felt when I was exercising.
She said my body was fighting me tooth and nail (something like that).

Though I still wanted to slap her, I also tried to listen. Because she had a point there. My body was thriving at 300+ pounds, and it is thriving now. When I starve it (that's what my body thinks this all is), it fights back - body and brain - saying, FEED ME, DON'T WORK ME SO HARD - I'M TIRED/IT HURTS!

My body is NOT supposed to cooperate with this. It is fighting me. Holding on to food, telling me to eat more, wanting me to overfill as it is accustomed to.

That made sense. It's an obvious, but it makes sense.

So, yeah, I'll weigh in officially tomorrow, and this morning I was 252, so I expect it to be about the same. It is disappointing. But it doesn't mean I have to stay here. Unfortunately, my "thinness" is starting to wear off. I'm feeling bulgy and fat and a bit uncomfortable. Maybe that's good. I don't want to get too comfortable here. I mean it feels great (in comparison , but it isn't where I want to set up camp for too long.

100 pounds. 100 pounds. 100 pounds. Right around the corner.

PS: Oh. So, I have PCOS. We knew that. She's also ordered some labs for me to do a fasting glucose. Pending that, she'd like me to try the Metformin again. I also saw a nutritionist. We can talk about that another time.

Day 10 Of 11 Day Challenge... Still On Task

Two more days of this 11 Day Challenge. I (almost) made it. One more day. After today. Ha. I have a day off today, so I have a little more time to reflect on this challenge and might not tomorrow.

Here's what I said:

I came in January 2013 at 272 and I will be frustrated with myself if I leave at that weight, or can't get below 270. I probably shouldn't hold myself to such a hard degree, but I need to see some progress in myself or I am concerned frustration will set in.

I've done pretty good. I've stayed tight to my calorie limits, I've lost weight, and completely cleared 270. I feel good about things. I'd call that a success. I'm leaving January and I'm leaving the 270s. Hoo-rah, hoo-rah. It really does feel good to be looking at a goal beyond breaking 270 now.

It hasn't been easy this week, especially yesterday. After I weighed in Monday, I realized I was getting my monthly frienemy (aka "period"). It was early. I wasn't expecting it.

Tuesday I was ready to pour chocolate on my car tires and eat them. I get that desperate. I plugged in my calories for the day heading into dinner and realized my dinner was going to cost me. I needed to recaculate things to allow for more food and less calories. So, instead of the mexican gumbo bowls (pork, rice, chips, cheese - yummy), I had to settle for something vegetable-laden and bulky. Something to fill me up more for less.

I made a broccoli salad. It is 150 calories per serving and I ate two servings, topped with 2 servings of fake crab meat (140 calories). So my dinner capped out at 440 calories (verses about 600 with what I originally planned). It was filling and it satisfied me. It wasn't warm comfort food, but it was crunchy and savory and sweet and it worked.

It was only after I ate it that I realized I had calculated my snack wrong and had an extra 100 calories to spare. But you know what? I wasn't troubled or upset. I was proud of myself for not choosing to make an excuse (my monthly frienemy - which is a good one) to blow things. I was talking myself into it, and was close to blowing it on food, wine, and something sweet.

I didn't. I don't know why or how, but praise God, I did it. And I found a new mixture (crab and broccoli salad) that works for me. 

---

Another thing I learned over doing this challenge is that taking care of myself requires me to be somewhat selfish. It requires me to put a bit of a spotlight on mySELF. Sometimes that is uncomfortable. 

But I want to note this for myself: I can't spend all my time on everyone else. Everyone has their thing, and if you want it, you have to prioritize it. Once I get done with MYSELF, then I can focus on other things. I volunteer my time a lot, and when I wasn't working it made sense. I wasn't working and I was horribly fat. Now, I'm working and I'm trying to manage a home, and I'm trying to get to a healthier place for myself. It is OK for me to do that.

Another note: There is always time. Priorities. Everything anyone says about better health and weight loss/maintenance is true. You have to commit to it. You have to live it. You have to make it a priority. I've managed to find time to plan meals, count calories, exercise (3x per week) - only because I made it a priority. I've still paid bills, talked to people, attended my kid's events - but I've spent less time wasting on the internet, on sleeping, on eating. I can't say that every day allows for the time, but disciplining myself to get off the computer, or get off my duff, or get up a bit earlier... that's what gets me there.

I don't know what I will do after tomorrow. On comes a new month. I might allow myself a "day off" this weekend for the Super Bowl. I don't know. Today I feel good. I got up and worked out, ate a yummy breakfast... have a list of things to do, and will happily check some off. 

I will go into February at 268. I am one pound away from being half-way to my goal. I am one pound away from losing 70 pounds. Wowzy. I'd like to leave February below 264, because I aim to leave March below 260. That gives me 8 weeks to lose 8 pounds. Maybe that is my next challenge! 

Hello 2012 JOY

I don't really know what I weigh right now. Could be somewhere around 295. It doesn't matter really. I'm uncomfortable, depressed and miserable in my own skin. But what else is new?

So, that's not really why I'm writing. I'm writing because it is a new year. New Years bring on a battery of emotions for fatties and fitties alike. Wanting to change, renew old vows of fitness and better eating... all that fun stuff.

I'm not exempt.

Not at all.

I'm scarily still motivated, even though my recent stint of eating well and exercising didn't budge much on the scale. Go figure. But still, what I am thinking about right now, as I ponder taking the financial and meaningful jump into the world of paid fitness memberships is - JOY.

Yeah. JOY. I keep reading blogs and posts of people who have lost HUGE amounts of weight and feel great and blablbla and why can't I be like them is the question in my brain most of the time.

I'm not JOYful at all. I'm rather a negative, depressive person. There's a connection there. It seems almost easier to change the body than the brain. For people who just make bad food choices, getting on a simple path of eating well can bring on (nearly instant), satisfying results. But for people like me, who eat more with the brain, the heart--emotions... it isn't just about "sensible choices." Which leaves me to wonder if I try to change the brain, then maybe I can find some success in my body (and life) as well.

I also have to give fair thought time to wondering if I just flat out like being a negative depressed person. What a joy I must be to be around, eh? But my joy (or learned comfort) is in misery. And when I'm happy, wondering when the next misery might come. Not wanting to start off the new year saying, "It's going to be a GREAT one!!!" because what if it isn't? What if it is laced with a cloud?

Because it is 2012 and I'm unhappy about a whole world of crap,  channeling my misery constantly. I have legitimate things to be unhappy about. Severe crosses to bear.  My spirit is messed up. I focus on that misery and miss the JOYS that come my way. I allow myself to smile, and enjoy a moment, but I don't really bask in it. I'm afraid to be happy. I'm wired to be negative.

No fitness blog worth reading is channeled in negativity. None. There is no success. That's where the fatness comes in. Connection? Must be.

So maybe my NYR needs to be one with less of a weight-related slant and more of a positive/joy related slant.

Happy no matter frigging what. You can be miserable, but then when someone comes along to cheer you up, you fight it because that misery is comfort on some level. You don't want to smile, you want to cry and whine, and kick and scream and pity.

What kind of life is that? Where have I been short-changing myself to partake in such misery constantly? Is it just me and I need to settle and that is just who I am and be Scrooge? Or can choosing JOY change a person?

What if I didn't satisfy that pity party for a while?

Stress Eating

I've had SO much going on over the last couple of weeks. Life changes, family challenges, work. It doesn't matter, though, as if I were unique. We all have these things happen. We all experience the challenges and joys in life. I'm not looking for pity. I'm reflecting.

I did well for a bit there, biking a lot, walking a lot. Being active, eating sensibly while still enjoying the fruits of summer. And then the stressors hit. I ate because it was easier than thinking about it. I ate, because it was comforting.

I can be sure that the scale would reflect my "comforting" if I were to step on it today.

But the real reason that I come here at midnight to pound out a quick post/note to self is to document the fact that:

I've had fast food for 3 days straight (eeeew).
Today, on a day of massive stress and sadness I made popcorn with butter and salt, ate brie with honey and a yummy crusty bread. Drank half a bottle of wine.

... and I yearn for more.

I found myself doing the weirdest thing ever. Instead of reaching for the 6-pack of Hershey's chocolate bars I have stashed in the cupboard for s'more making, I grabbed a bag of lettuce, ripped it open, put a few handfuls in a bowl.

Ate a leaf of lettuce. Chewed.

Totally skipped the dressing. No olive oil and vinegar, no Ranch, no nothing. I ate that baby naked. And I liked it. I could probably stuff the whole bag down my throat if I wanted to. I just... I wanted to chew. I wanted something. And I got it from a bag of lettuce.

Manure Hits Fan

My emotions are tied to my eating. I know and recognize this. Part of my (gag-cliche-gag) journey in all this is facing things head on, sacrificing my pride, and relearning.

I've done good. 70 pounds down, not shabby. But the last couple weeks I've been sliding. The scale hasn't much reflected it, but the way I've been eating has, and the scale is sure to follow. OK. That's a lie. The scale isn't going down. That's how it is reflecting. I'm no longer losing. I'm maintaining, and soon I will be gaining.

I could wax poetic for a bunch of paragraphs, but I'll just claim the truth of it and work with that.

So here it is: my depressed and anxiety-prone adult child is living with us again. For four years we went through, (dragging us with) a nightmare with her as she entered her teen years, barreling through them with drugs, alcohol, risky behavior and excitement, with disregard for everyone around her. I haven't healed from all of that yet, and now we find her back with us. I still have kids in the house who are not grown, which sets off a whole different dynamic.

I'm scarred, and not yet healed from the trauma that we went through. Having her here again has re-opened wounds. The only good thing about having her home is that we know where she is at night, and we know she's not out on the streets doing who knows what. Been there, not easy, but you learn to live with it. I'm not saying it's right or good or even going to "work" letting her stay here in the long run. I'm just saying it is what is now.

Through all those years I never went to counseling. I survived, I got through. I learned and grew as a mother and a human being. I suffered. A lot. More than I care to think of right now. I believe I have a some PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) from all of those years of trauma, lies, fear.

Just as I started to find some peace and healing, acceptance... it comes crashing down again. I've been taking Xanax, occasionally. I went to a counselor for the first time two weeks ago. I'm anxious and irritable, depressed. Feeling the stress in nearly every corner of my world.

I feel horrible, complaining like this, which is why I haven't said anything about it. But today, as I looked at my nearly expended calories, felt stuffed to the gills, poured a Guinness (drank half, then poured it out), climbed in my car for a chocolate run (with a kid in tow to run into the store for me -- I look a hot mess), came back and ate 200 calories of Hershey's (half of that in the car, and half on the couch, still within my calorie range) - and then within a half-hour decided to completely blow it, made an egg bagel, slathered with butter and a dash of grape jelly (I never eat this crap, so I know I'm on a binge), eat it furiously and sit down to type this? I know I have to face it, claim it, name it, pray about it, give it up to God -- whatever I can do to not be consumed by it.

This is where the tough part comes in, honey. And it is tough. Because the most wicked saboteur is not friends, family, commercials, celebrity or anything else. It's SELF. And I was wondering when it would kick in. I was wondering when my willpower and drive would fail. And it is now. When the manure hits the fan.

If I can't keep on the path, despite my unhappiness, then I have problems. I need to face this problem, whatever it is at the root, dig it up and get rid of it.

I don't know how yet. But I'm standing in the hole with a shovel, ready to cut into the root, or pull the dirt over my head.

Ups and Downs

I was sick with the stomach flu, which knocked me down to 269. After I regained my health again, I went back to 270. I'll weigh myself next week to see where I'm falling.

I've also been doing some fun summery things lately, which is great for the spirit, but not always so good for my eating. I can't pre-pack a lunch where the calories are all accounted for when we hit a baseball game, or picnick with friends. I have to just allow myself to either skip counting that day or try to figure it out later. I watch my portions. Normally I'd be going for walks, but it is so hot out that my walking has been decreased. Knowing this, I have to figure out what I will do to ensure I don't explode.

But the great thing is, I met up with some of my lady friends last night and one kept commenting on how good I looked and how I'd lost weight. It was validating. Because the week before I about murdered my husband.

We met up with some of his old work friends for a little tailgaiting and a game. I was feeling pretty good, my clothes fitting nicely, hadn't seen them for a while. Surely they'd notice, right?

Never assume.

We get there, say our hellos, huggy, huggy. My man trails in behind me and that's when our friends start in. Man, you have lost weight!!! Wow. You look great, dude. You've really slimmed down. I literally wanted to step back a few yards, get down low, sweep my foot out behind me and snort a few times before I ran at the group and knocked them all off of their little chairs and coolers. And then do it again. And then barrel over my husband.

It was like that. No. He's not been struggling, journaling, denying of self, weighing in, sacrificing. No, no. His wife is just doing that. He just loses weight because of it.

But I can't concentrate on it too much or my blood boils.

So instead I think on the gathering with my girlfriends last night and the multiple compliments from one of the ladies, questions on how I was doing it. And THEN, a few days ago, I saw an old friend who lives miles away who I hadn't seen for a year and she kept telling me how great I looked. How much she noticed I had lost weight. God love both of them for noticing.

With my husband's work friends, bless their hearts, but they're all kind of centered around my husband. I'm just part of the package. So honestly, I wasn't surprised that they didn't notice anything different with me. With MY friends, they're so sweet, and they noticed because they notice me.

At any rate, that's better than what the scale is telling me. And it is motivation to continue the slow, but sure progress that being intentional, holding myself accountable (with journaling) brings.

Turnstile Tourture And Overcoming The Fear

Like a moth to a flame. That's the only way I could describe it.

St. Louis, 2010. The Gateway Arch. My fear of heights, swirling in my belly, telling my bladder that a bathroom might want to be close. The desire to conquer my fears, trumping it all.

I don't know how I did it, having a palatable fear of both heights, small spaces, and a periphery distaste for crowds. A trip to the top of the Gateway Arch involves all three. I was with my child and his friend, both teenagers, both able to sense my discomfort, but unaware of the extent I was truly battling.

See, fear has driven many of the decisions I've made in the past 10 years or so of my life. Anxiety over the unknown, of the possible, and of the absurd. All equal, all giving reasons for me not doing this, or avoiding that. Embodiment of who I am, who I've become.

It is exhausting.

I haven't taken my kids to amusement parks because of the fear of not being able to fit on rides. I would have gone, long ago. But I know better. Not... that I couldn't take them and sit, watch. We do that at our local fairs, the kids go on rides and we watch them ride. But the big-daddy parks that are few hours away? No.

Surely there's more I've avoided, but if you're fat--and maybe if you're not-- you get it.

So, the day I ventured to the Arch was a day purely inspired, because it didn't come naturally.

I realized it might be my only chance, and made my move. We arrived, we walked up the stairs, past the metal detectors, and I steamed ahead, without asking many questions. OK. I lied. I went up to the lady in the Information booth and said:

So. About 4 minutes to the top, huh? And you sit in what? I mean... how many people can sit together? And what about a big girl? Could a large momma fit? Yes, me, I'm the big girl. Really? You think so? No problem, eh? Mmmkay. Oh? That's a replica over there? OK I'll check it out.

I quickly scuttled over to a small, globe-like cage; the simulator. It looked like a full circle version of those globe chairs? But it seats five. I climbed in it taking the corner seat. My neck had to bend down, the ceiling too short for me to sit straight. Wave of claustrophobia.

I bought our tickets before I could back out. I figured if she sold me the tickets, I must not be too big. Right?

We waited in line and I scanned the crowd for people with girth comparable or larger than my own. Radar tuned; state of perspicaciousness. Zeroing in on any and every fatty that walked past us having already survived the experience.

As we closed in on the front of the line, I noticed a fat persons bane of existence: a turnstile. I looked to the workers as they shuffled around, commanding the people in line, asking how many riders and handing us our car number. I locked in on their eyes for any signal of distress -- any hint that they may be questioning my ability to fit, to ride, to be caged in with four other passengers. Images of walkie talkies and secret conversations about having a rider to big to fit playing over in the back of my mind.

I prayed. Prayed just a fervently that I would fit through that turnstile as I would live, and not be blown up by terrorists while at the top of the Arch. Both were equally as important, at this point. If I had to be turned away by the Gateway Arch employees for "failure to fit" right in front of my kid and his friend, I would literally throw myself off the top of the Arch anyway (after climbing up the outside of it), so it was a lose-lose situation.

I nearly broke out in a cold sweat. Mouth dry, bladder screaming, I began to grow concerned that the entire line was wondering the same thing I was: Would She Fit? More than likely nobody else cared or even gave it a second thought, because they weren't fat and they had other things to concern themselves with. More than likely it was me, thinking the world revolved around my circumstances, and if I noticed, then surely there was an audience taking note as well.

For ten long minutes, I held in my nervous pee, glancing from turnstile to worker, back to worker (one of whom I engaged in nervous, poodle-like chatter, in hopes that they wouldn't deny me). Between my yippy comments to the worker, my child, the friend, the wall, the carpet, I played over and over in my mind how I would own that turnstile and defy the odds. There was, after all, an escape. Right next to the excruciatingly narrow turnstile that was not made for childbearing women (seriously, it was abnormally narrow -- I had already resigned to the fact that there was no way I'd fit head on and I would need to shimmy through sideways), there were 3 crate-like boxes propped between the turnstile and the wall. Oddly, peculiarly, propped. As if an escape hatch for the rejected fatties to exit through.

I'm sorry, sir. You won't fit, therefore you can not ride. George?! Move the crates - a reject needs to make way for the rest of the riders!!!

A wave of the hand from the supervising Arch worker, a well-crafted, thought out move by this Gordita, and I was through the torture device.

What? I was going to ride?!

I made it!!!

There were 2 more checkpoints to get through, but none as painful as the first. The final stop before riding was to stand, waiting in front of one of 8 doors for your round spaceship to take carry you to the top. But it isn't worth discussing, as I made it, it's over. I rode it to the top, and I made it back down. I conquered a fear that I did not think I could. Literally. I still, looking at pictures, have no clue how in the world I made it through all that, given the anxiety and fears that I have.

Prayer. I prayed a lot.

I am proud of myself. And, more than making it to the top, I learned a lot about me, and I felt like a person again. I didn't have to give something up because of my fatness and my fears.

Rewarding Myself With Bodywash And Trying To Stay On Point

Today I got up, sat on the couch, checked email, decided I:

1. Was awake enough

2. Had procrastinated enough

and I busted out my recently purchased My Fitness Coach for Wii and took it for a second spin. Verdict is still out on it, but initial reaction is quite sour. But that's not the whole point of what I'm talking about today, and I'm trying to do a little better with staying on point.

Not working so well in the first few minutes here.

Ah well. So anyway, I was up, exercised and ready for my day, which is not normal. And I'm not saying it's going to BE normal. I'm just saying I did it today. Living in the moment... Then, I had my breakfast, and hopped in the shower. Slightly excited to hop in the shower, because I had a new body wash. Nothing fancy, just a Softsoap creamy something that's supposed to moisturize. It was $3 at Wal-mart.

And then I realized how, in the past few weeks of counting calories and a bit of self-denial, I had made a subtle switch. I said "subtle" honey, not groundbreaking; keep that in mind. But I realized that for $3 measly dollars, I totally brightened up my morning, and rewarded myself for a workout well done. It wasn't a food reward (which is my normal way of doing things), it didn't cost me calories, or make me feel guilty later.

See, I often tell myself that my food rewards are somewhat "passable" because, well, ya have to eat, right? So going out to dinner is a necessary evil -- why not enjoy it? Right? Weak, I know. But that led to my fat self weighing in at linebacker stats. And it isn't cheap either.

But... a woman's also gotta shower. So why not enjoy that? I'm not saying that I need to go spend oodles of dollars on body washes, scrubs and such, but responsible spending on little non-food items that make me happy aren't hurtful.

After my shower I lotioned up with some new Jergen's Natural lotion, and felt pampered and happy.

And then I pondered on the patience that weight loss requires and how I really wasn't blessed in that department. But we can talk about that later, because I'm trying to stay on point today.

Oh How I Wanted A Nutella On Toast

Today has been a frustrating day. I was frustrated at the daily stress of managing a household, working, and simply struggling to get through the day. I'll spare all of the particulars, but bottom line was, at the end of the day, all I wanted was a Nutella on toast.

After running here, running there, disappointments and frustrations, I got the kids in bed and sat down to eat my pre-packaged, less-than-300-calorie meal. I counted up my leftover calories, and figure I have more than enough for a nice piece of wheat bread, toasted warm and slathered with the creamy, nutty, chocolately sweet goodness that is Nutella.

The more I wanted it, the more I became frustrated with myself. I wanted, needed and DESERVED to treat myself, didn't I? I could almost taste it.

I opened the fridge and thought a beer sounded dandy, too.

I admitted to myself that I was not hungry and I was totally in the midst of an emotionally-charged eating crisis. And I felt like punching myself in the face, disgusted.

I brushed my teeth.

I connected with God.

And I avoided a Nutella on Toast today.

Soda Drinkers

Excuse me while I rant a bit.

You know what ruffles my feathers? Is when I hear someone say, " I lost 40 pounds and, you know, I really haven't have to modify my diet very much yet. Basically, I just stopped drinking soda and the weight melted right off."

That's some crazy stuff. That's not a "weight issue" that's seriously an educational issue. If you're drinking so much sugared soda that your body packs on over 40-pounds of weight? I mean, more power to ya - it's a simple change that makes a BIG impact. I wish my problems were that easy. I can't even tell you the last time I drank a full-on, sugared soda. My mom had my pudgy butt sucking down the first sugar-free sodas that made your feet turn to flippers from the corrosive chemicals they contained. That's not even on my radar anymore. It's not an option.

Don't hate the player, hate the game. I know, I know. I'm not hating on you soda drinkers that are shown the light. OK, maybe a teeny bit.

- - -

On another note, I'm still in the semi-obsessive start-zone of getting my fitness back on track, so I'm finding myself on the scale more than I normally do. I will note that my Wii Fit (which I use, along with my shipping scale) weighed me in at 289.something. Which would mean I've lost 2 pounds (question mark, question mark, exclamation point). I'm aware that weight fluctuates throughout the day. But I'm pretty positive that I will make and pass that weight, so I'm trying not to worry about it (by "worry" I mean, lend myself to being concerned that come next weigh-in it will have all been a fluctuating lie and I will weigh 300 pounds again).

At any rate, Happy St. Patty's Day.

365 Days of Exercize... I think today is day 33

Who knows what day I'm on. If I weren't so bloody lazy, I'd figure it out. But I think it is 33, and though I've contemplated quitting, I haven't been able to muster up the will to do so.

Not quitting reading. I'm determined to read the Bible through. But walking. Every day. Some days this week, out of fatigue and sheer lack of time, I walked in place for 5 minutes, and then later did the same. It wasn't even about the act of walking, it was about obedience, and doing it, regardless. And obidience, I have to say, sometimes SUCKS.

I'm finding that this has more to do with me and God than me and my fat behind. As I go through some of the most trying times of my life, I find myself leaning on the rock that is Jesus, depsite myself.

But I'm not a wussy. As much as I'd love to say that I am, surrender, and dive into a vat of liquor and high-fat-content food and not come out. I'm more defiant than that. Satan can't suck me down without a fight. I do believe the struggles of this world are not against flesh and blood but against the powers and spiritual wickedness of the world.

My Worst Enemy

I now am on Twitter. Who isn't? We'll see if I use it.

_____

Also, I'm feeling the least motivated I have in a long time. I'm also feeling very, largely fat. And sluggish. I'm not sure what to attribute that to. Could be my period. Could just be the resolution that I am going to spiral into a 500 pound mass of skin and fat that never leaves the house unless aided by a scooter.

What happened? What is happening to me? I'm sure people look at me and see a loss of self-control, probably something dirty. I see people looking at my flabby flop of a belly, too, more than I used to now that it is hanging down like dirty laundry. I hate it. I don't like my body. I can't stand it, sometimes, feeling trapped - claustrophobic - in my pounds of fat.

But, coupled with that, I'm also feeling resigned and scared. I think I'm scared to lose weight, lose what I've become and who I am. Talk about being a bipolar mess -

Oh.

Hmm. OK.

Lightbulb moment. Yeah sure, I'm a bipolar mess, but I think I know where my balls went. They cozied up to a dastardly beast called STRESS.

I can pretty much peg my descend into having a belly that droops like baby in a sling, and a weight-gain of 20 pounds - it happened this past year. The most STRESSFUL time I've had in my entire life. Like being attacked from all sides, to the point where I think I'm lucky I only abuse alcohol instead of consider it my life-blood.

Yeah, stress. I should be incapacitated by booze or my own girth, at this point, but since I gained 20 pounds and am pressing buttons on my wardrobe, I trip it up in my mind that I have failed and that I'm one cracker away from a scooter and a nurse cleaning between my folds.

Wow. What a wussy I am, sometimes. Seriously. Instead of focusing on what I've held together, I let the light shine on how I've fallen apart.

As cliche as it is, I'm my own worst enemy. My mind and the tricks I let it play.

Ephesians 6:12

12For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.

I need to armor-up more, and not be defeated so easily.