Rising

Another day.

I’ve been doing some reading to try and keep my motivation up over this unexpectedly difficult week. One of my favourite things to do is to check out blogs of people who have been doing a similar thing to me, but who are much further on in their journeys. There’s no denying the power of the ‘before and after’ pictures, and there are some great examples out there. Really inspiring.

It’s an odd thing though, and it’s an awful thing to say but when I look at them, I simply cannot imagine ever being that successful at losing this weight. (This probably goes a long way to explaining why I have been overweight for my entire adult life.) There is a very destructive meme in my mind that has somehow convinced me that I cannot ever be slim. I write about it now because it has really only just crystallised in my mind, and I am a great believer in the idea that you can’t hope to overcome something unless you fully admit to it. Despite (or perhaps because of) years of struggling and trying and wishing and starving and binging… there is a huge part of my mind that does not believe I will ever get better. The closest I ever came to feeling it was back in my late 20s (4 years ago) when I made it to 170lbs through a combination of obsessive exercise and extremely limited diet. I was a UK size 14, which is still gigantic by fashion standards but to someone who had been buying size 20-22 previously, it was the equivalent of winning the lottery. But it wasn’t tenable. Gradually through a combination of disrupted exercise regimen (we had to sell our treadmill), work stress and more money (equalling greater access to food) I watched everything I had worked and starved for slip away. Ridiculous, on so many levels.

I made it so far, then I plateaued, then it all disappeared (or, rather, it reappeared).

How do I defeat this feeling that I can’t be slim? I have never seen my body anything other than the rather repulsive mess it is now. My thighs are enormous. How can they ever be anything other? Where will it go?

I think I’m just impatient. This is why I have to have clothes to try on, because otherwise I just stand in front of the mirror feeling horrified. It’s like I have a special filter on when I look at myself, where I can neither see nor imagine any improvement, ever.

Man, I can’t wait for this ridiculous glum mood to lift.

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