I have to be honest, friends. I am not doing well.
After three weeks of no weigh-ins and eating pretty much whatever, I hit the scale this morning and learned the nasty reality of what I had done to myself. I gained three pounds.
What the hell am I doing??
I promised myself before I got on the scale that I wasn’t going to beat myself up if I gained. I just need to face the music and then do some damage control. I got off the scale and was fine—for about 30 seconds. After that it was a full on, pick on Victoria fest:
“Why can’t I do this? When am I going to get my shit together? Why is losing weight so freaking hard? I might as well just stay fat because I am NEVER going to be able to do this. I fail EVERY time.”
Those are just a few of the thoughts I had running through my brain this morning on the way to work. Not pretty. Not one bit.
Now, I’m no rocket scientist, but I’m a pretty smart girl. I don’t think I would have gotten this far in life by being a moron, but honestly, what do I have to do to make my brain understand that losing weight is important for me and my health? I always go in with the best intentions—“this time it’s going to be different, I’m really going to do it”—and then 15 minutes later I’ve got my head stuck in a bag of potato chips. Seriously?!
On Wednesday I told my friend Kevin that sometimes it just feels like I’m destined to be overweight forever, and maybe I should just stop fighting it and just learn to live with it. A total cop out, yes, but that’s honestly what I’ve been thinking.
Kevin told me that if I had truly wanted to give up I already would have. In truth, he’s right (I hate it when he’s right-which he is most of the time). Every time I pick myself up and start again it’s a declaration that I’m not ready to give up.
Fall down seven times, stand up eight.
And I’m up.