I dare you to deal with even a smidgen of the things I’ve dealt with the last half of 2014 and the first half of 2015, and not be epically struggling with the freakin’ numbers on the scale.
A year ago on this date, I weighed 145 pounds. I stayed between 142 and 147 for eight solid months of 2014. Then “life happened,” and I succumbed to some form of overeating. It doesn’t matter what TYPE of overeating— stress, comfort, binge, grief—it all has the potential to put the pounds on.
By the end of 2014, I’d noshed my way right up into the high 170s again, and I was sick about it. Sick—and feeling powerless to change. I felt old and ugly and my self-esteem plummeted. Despite my life-long journey, and how far I’d come, I still felt like a big, fat, fraud.
In January, Rick and I had a long heart-to-heart talk about emotional eating, and how my overeating wouldn’t fix him, and only add to his feelings of “guilt.” He was adamant when he said it was my JOB NUMBER ONE to take care of myself, despite his declining health.
So I got back on the horse, so to speak, and started turning things around, relying on my former battle cry of “Stay the Course!”
Yet when he died in early April, my debilitating grief threatened my sanity around any sugary substance. I only kept from going face down in the food by constantly chanting to myself, “Honor him. Honor him. Honor him.”
Today, thankfully, I am back in the 140s, and firmly ensconced inside my self-selected optimum goal range. And I know, in my heart of hearts, Rick is relieved to see me honoring my commitment to stay at a healthy weight.
Semper Fi, my Marine Guy!