I wrote this post months ago. Or maybe it was years ago. The point is, the day might be different. But the words are the same.
One step forward.
Two steps back.
Three steps forward. And I’ve already won.
I should have seen it coming. I know me. How my head works. I’m an all or nothing kind of girl and maybe it has to do with the leftover eating disordered baggage and maybe it doesn’t, but it doesn’t really matter. This is where I am right now.
Two weeks ago I was months into a clean eating, loving to and making the time to work out, feeling good inside and out kind of routine. Then I decided to sprain my ankle while making a sandwich for The Husband, because obviously I was supposed to hire a personal trainer first and Get In Shape For That Shit. Or maybe I didn’t do enough pre-sandwich-making stretching. Either way, the result was me in an emergency room, my foot in a brace, and orders from the nurse to keep my ass parked on the couch for a few weeks.
Six months ago I sat in my nurse practitioner’s office to discuss my food allergies, newly limited diet, and the very real need to lose weight in order to reduce my insulin resistance symptoms. She knows my history so we agreed to focus on how I feel, ditch the scale, and just go with a general goal of a healthier me. A few visits later, I stood on the scale with my eyes closed, feeling pretty smug in my pre-pregnancy jeans and flatter stomach (because reducing abdominal fat is the key to to reversing the insulin resistance). I was fine until my nurse practitioner let it slip that I had lost 40 pounds and how wonderful and way to go and all of a sudden the focus was back on the number and I began a slow decent into a pool of self-sabotage.
Two years ago I was working out, counting calories, and getting my pre-mama sexy back. Until one day The Husband congratulated me on my progress and told me he was proud of me. That’s all it really takes to set me off on the world’s most redundant kamikaze mission. Again.
It doesn’t happen instantaneously. I don’t wake up the very next day and decide to raid the pantry for salty carbs and chocolate because I am still holding strong. I am still (trying) to focus on how healthy I feel.
Until I wake up on the other side of yesterday and realize where I had landed. On my face. Hiding from the scale. Doing the Mommy version of the Toddler Potty Dance, only my dance is way less cute because it involves trying to shove my fat ass into the jeans that fit me perfectly two weeks ago. They still button, mind you. But unless I’m going for that Purposeful Muffin Top Look (and what the hell is that about, anyway?) it’s a total nu-uh, Mama. Try again. There, that pair. Shut up about how they look. They fit. Right?
I did an hour long yoga session the night before last.
I polished off a package of dairy free, gluten-free chocolate chip cookies last night.
I passed up on serving a heaping side of bullshit and instead wrote about the reality inside my head. It’s not always funny. But it is me. And this is what I need to write about for now. I’ll continue to go through the motions for a few days or so, maybe a week. I need something concrete to hand to Buttercup when she’s old enough to understand that my desire to raise her whole and confident is stronger than my fear of judgement and having to explain the words on this page to the people I talk to in real life. I’ll pay lip service to giving a damn, eat a few more things that I shouldn’t, work out less than I should, and eventually wake up on the other side of tomorrow reveling in the success of having weathered another storm.
One step forward.
Two steps back.
Three steps forward. And I’ve already won.
Pauline Campos contributes to Funny Not Slutty, An Army of Ermas, Owning Pink, and 30 Second Mom. She blogs three times a week (when her Adderall is working, anyway) at Aspiring Mama and is the founder of Girl Body Pride. This post originally appeared on Aspiring Mama.
It’s so hard to be mentally healthy about eating and food and body image. I have just lost 45 lbs and now I’m teetering on a place of “OMG eat all of the things” again. I recenly upped my exercise and now my body is saying WANT FOOD. It’s a battle. Sigh.
Getting the mental processes of eating and body image to hold hands is, and this is quite the bold statement, probably one of the toughest battle we’re faced with as women. It becomes cyclical too, regardless of our mental stamina against it.
I’ve found myself screaming into the void to JUST KISS AND MAKE UP WITH YOUR BROTHER ALREADY more than I sometimes care to admit.
I am a big proponent of eating what your body needs. I am not a doctor, nor am I a nutritionist, but if you are fighting your body’s urges to eat more after upping your exercise, it’s a good sign that you aren’t eating enough calories for the level of activity you are doing. That being said, congrats on your hard work to get healthier. Hugs, high five, and take care of you.
This post resonates as I have, for the first time in the history of my personal existence, purchased a bathroom scale. I’ve never let myself become a slave to the number inches from the floor. Never. I find myself playing mind-fuck hopscotch daily now. A pride in the number one day, a middle finger to that square hunk of metal the next when I can fit into those size 29s, but according to someone, I’ve gained a few ell bees.
It’s a slippery slope, with or without the history of a disorder, to really nail down what we can individually quantify as our successes in the physical battle of self.
Woman? You have ways with words. WAYS, I tell you. And those words resonate because I think you just read my mind.
Me and Sylvia Brown have a LOT more in common than I like to admit.
you are BFF’s with Montel Williams too???