I fell off. Wait...that's not true. I jumped off, thought I could run alongside, fell back a few paces, and just sat down hoping another wagon would come along.
As much as I have been in denial about it, I have regained every last pound I had lost. Every.single.pound. I'm as out of shape as I was when I first started. It doesn't feel like I've been off track as long as I have been. I keep thinking I can jump right back into walking long distances and jogging in small spurts because it feels like it has only been a few months. How has it been, I don't even know how long, because most of that time I was denying I was a quitter.
I had an interesting conversation last month with my dietitian. (Yes, I've still been seeing her monthly, even though I've not been heeding her advice.) I finally admitted, out loud, that I gave up. I've been angry (not past tense - ugh), and I had given up on myself. I ate with the mindset of "who cares? the scale is going up anyway, so eff it!" I watched the numbers on that scale continually go up, and all the while said "well, at least you aren't back to your starting weight." And now I am. It's like I was trying to prove something. A self-fulfilling prophecy.
I begged for that switch to flip again, and while I don't think it's fully switched into place, it's 75% there. The weather is nice, we have a treadmill (no excuses!), I'm not craving carb-heavy, wintery foods. Sure, it's sad to have to sit and wait while my coworkers go on a lunchtime walk, to have to walk slowly at home to avoid the side of my leg hurting (tendonitis? anterior shin splints?), to see my walking app say I avoided pain only by going 2.3 mph vs. the 3.3 mph I was used to walking. But where else does one start but back at the beginning when they've fallen back to that point, right? There's more shame in giving in than starting over. So, here I am, starting over. I've got this!
No comments:
Post a Comment