Hiding.. and the toilet..

Standard

Hiding.. and the toilet

via Hiding.. and the toilet...

Advertisements

Hiding.. and the toilet..

Standard

So.. after the anger induced previous post, I took a step back. Back from Blogging, Anger logging, Anglogging? I have been participating in the 21 day challenge set by the lovely Megan at We are slimming. 

 

My targets were this: 

1. Eat more protein. 

2. Drink more water. think Camel-like, storing it away for a trek across the desert kinds of quantities. 

3. Try and fit in some form of activity each day. 

For the first two I am actually doing really well! I eat my protein and drink and drink and drink water.. which often leads to slightly maniacal toilet dashes. 

So I am quite pleased with all of that. The activity part, well that’s another story. Unless you count the walk to the fridge to get my protein or water.. and really, who counts that? Although with the increased protein and water intake…. nah.. better not. 

So I have been trying, somewhat, to participate in the challenge that the we are slimming forum has set. My challenge I think I am going to put on temporary hiatus. On account of the fact that I want to kick ass at it. Kick it out of the park. Do so freaking well that I am prancing up the street and boxing and weaving to the rocky theme. So I consider this challenge to be a trial run for my challenge. 

I have been thinking about something lately. It’s the idea of hiding. of locking ourselves away because there is something that we don’t want our loved ones to see. For me, it’s the fact that I have put on the weight equalling that of a primary school aged child.. a very large primary school aged child. ok, an anorexic adult. 

I think that I have been doing this, hiding away from people I know to avoid them seeing me. I married my darling hubby in January this year. I haven’t as yet met the majority of his family because they live in New Zealand. He assures me that they are lovely people and I am sure that they are. However, a part of me, a small insidious voice inside my head tells me that they will recoil from me and come after me with torches and pitchforks like the townspeople did to Shrek. I honestly don’t want to go over there and be made to feel self conscious, out of place and crap about myself. I can do that perfectly well myself without paying for a passport and airfare! 

So, am I hiding? tucking myself away in a safe place that is dark and (hopefully) judgement free? I know i was definitely hiding when I was shopping with my hubby the other day. I am considerably shorter than his divine 6’3 self and I was bending down to place my goodies in a bag at the self serve checkout. I straightened and promptly clocked myself on his elbow as I was coming back up. I howled (literally) in pain and got quite angry at my husband for having his elbow there. I could feel the eyes of onlookers burning into me and before I tore another strip off him I marched away and to the nearest public toilet. 

Sadly, I completely missed the large sign screaming at me that the door to the left was “WOMEN” and had to settle for the disabled toilet. The irony was not lost on me as I sat down on the almost novel toilet. 

I caught sight of myself in the toilet mirror, sitting down, naked from the waist down and everything hanging down. I had been avoiding mirrors lately and now I could see every fold, roll, curve and mark. I couldn’t look away as I stared at the unhappy woman staring back at me.  

Also sadly, I had misread the instructions and hadn’t locked the door properly so I think I managed to clock another unfortunate soul as she tried to come into the disabled toilet. Thankfully, she was able to shout the  locking instructions through the door before she departed, hopefully not to a emergency room.

So where to from here? What do you do when you are so used to hiding, concealing, self protecting? So much so that you jeopardise possible relationships. I think that perhaps along with self acceptance, I need to accept the fact that I can’t control what people think about me or how they feel towards me. If they are going to judge, I can’t stop them. it sucks, but it’s the truth. I guess it kind of helps you in a way though. Helps you to figure out exactly who is worth being in your life. The judgy bitches? No. No Siree! But the people who look through the outside, don’t worry about the packaging but manage to see what is on the inside and like you anyway.. well they are always worth it.  

Fookatiolet!

Standard

Bugger Bugger Bugger shit fuck damn.. ok, my finger is hovering over the delete button now because I know I have just been inappropriate, but sometimes you just need to swear, like, a lot. Being a well (read: semi) respected educator of delightful (read: demonic) high school students means that I can’t express the profanity verbally. The inside of my head should have an R18+ classification right now. I have had a lot going on in my personal life and for some ridiculous reason, I tend to eat my feelings rather than expressing them constructively, by punching a wall or something. 

Needless to say, I haven’t officially “started” started. I have had moments of brilliance this last week. I have walked about 12kms and burned just over 1000 calories. I have this nifty little app on my IPOD called Nike fitness plus that acts as a pedometer and tracks my steps, distance, calories, time etc etc etc. So there is satisfaction in that. I have also started some good habits. Having lots of water and having protein at breakfast and during the day to really fill me up. 

Wow, I sound like a health magazine. ugh. Ok, switching back to normal snarky (combo of sarcastic and narky. Like?) mode. So anyway, my dog got hit by a car and I have been having some “issues” with the darling hubby. For once, the “issues” are not my fault. Something I feel remarkably smug about. Needless to say, the buzz word for the week has been Binging. Binging with a capital B, in fact, enough Binging to be able to capitalise the whole word. BINGING. man, I gotta stop saying BINGING. 

They say that the first year of marriage is the hardest and I definitely agree, not only have I had to get used to sharing a bedroom, him taking up space and all of his stupid boy dvds (how many American Pie movies can they make?) But I see him every day and sometimes he does really really stupid things. Things that turn me from nice nigella lawson-esque wife into raging, shouty, Godzilla type wife. 

All of the drama of the last week has also turned me into a weepy, chocolate inhaling couch-vegatating type creature that really does not want to emerge from the safe cocoon of the sleeping bag that will still be warm all the way down to conditions of -2 degrees. Ah, sleeping bag. my good friend. 

I have joined a 21 day challenge, which ironically was put together the day after I proposed to start mine, that involves breaking unhealthy habits and replacing them with healthy ones. It’s due to start this wednesday, so I am hoping to have my personal shiz somewhat in check by then and be able to start as well. 

I have learned from all this. Even though it would be tempting to run outside and scream at the sky “WHY ME?!?!” or “STELLA!!!”, I can’t. The universe isn’t deliberately being a vindictive bitch with an axe to grind. Sometimes shit happens and sometimes it happens all at once. I need to batten down the hatches, ride out the storm and come out the other side ready to be a weightloss machine.. And I will.. believe you me. Even if it is only to give the universe the middle finger. 

Take two..

Standard

Well, as you all know, I made a commitment to start my 21 day challenge yesterday. That kinda didn’t happen. Don’t look at me like that, I have an excuse.. actually, even better, I have a reason. I had the best possible intentions. I started my day off perfectly. I had put out my exercise clothes, my runners and my mismatched sports anklets. (Despite the fact that I own about forty six pairs of these, I still cannot manage to find a pair that matches!) I soaked my oats for breakfast, poured a glass of lemon juice and water and charged my IPOD. 

In a moment that still haunts me, I asked darling hubby if he thought I should take our dog Lexie with me on the walk and he said, “Yeah, she would love that!” 

I’m wishing now that I hadn’t taken her with me. As we were heading home from the walk, Lexie ran out in front of an oncoming car. (I hadn’t put her on the leash because she tugs at it so hard that it chokes her and yanks my arm.) The car clipped her and she went under it. Somehow, she got up and managed to hobble over to me. There was blood everywhere. We were lucky that the car was a 4WD, meaning that she went under it and didn’t sustain any damage from that. 

She whimpered and I had to lift her and put her into the 4WD and clamber in myself. The drivers were lovely, they drove us home and rang the vet. Lexie scared the bejesus out of them when she jumped down from the tailgate of the 4WD and she tried to run to our front door, leaving a trail of blood. I picked her up once more and bundled her into the back of my commodore. I looked like a horror movie, covered in blood, bawling my eyes out and I gunned it to the VETs. 

Being me, I took her to the wrong VET. I didn’t realise that the girls had called the other VET and not the one that Lexie usually goes to. I drove there and rang the number.. demanding to know where he was. Dr Mark assured me that he hadn’t spoken to anyone that morning about a dog, but that he would be there in 10 minutes. Those were some of the longest minutes of my life.. The blood was pooling in the back of the tailgate, I was frantically trying to keep Lexie calm and all I could hear was her breath hitching in her chest as she struggled to breathe. 

The VET turned up like a knight in overalled armour. I had just gotten off the phone with darling hubby and he was on his way. 

Well the long and short of it is that it was a ratcrappy day.. I spent it washing blood off of myself and lying on the couch in a dazed, guilt ridden stupor. In the evening everything got too much and we ended up ordering pizza. I had had a good day food wise, actually, a perfect day. It just got too much in the evening and darling hubby promised he wouldn’t hold it against me. So I emotionally ate. A lot. I’m not proud of it, but I own it. 

So I will be starting my challenge again.. soon. Probably when my dog is safe at home in two days time. ImageMy Dog Lexie and I asleep after a long trip to melbourne. 

21 Days….

Standard

Apparently it takes 21 days to break a habit, Three weeks of agonising withdrawal. Three weeks of sweating, shaking and swearing before you are free of the grasp of whatever your “habit” might be. My habit is eating. Let me more specific, my habit is eating and eating and eating. I’m not talking the times when you pat your tum and joke about the “food baby” you conceived during lunch. I’m talking the scoffing down of whole packets of tim tams, 200gm packets of salt and vinegar chips and endless, endless burger meals at McDonalds.

Over the last few weeks, I have been looking quite critically at my shopping trolley. I have noticed that instead of food, as in fresh and nourishing type things, there is mostly crap in it. Doritos, salsa, pesto, triple cream brie, savoys, quince paste, M&Ms, cadburys blocks, shapes.. I could go on and on. Someone I know had recently told me that when you’re not sure of how to go about doing something, organisation is the only thing you can fall back on. So here I am, hoping to lose weight yet I am shooting myself in the trolley.. err.. foot.

Today I decided to take charge and start, what I am going to not so originally title, Project 21. Twenty one days of clean, healthy eating and breaking myself out of the junk food habit. I went down to my local woolies (the disapproving look I received from the middle aged woman in the bread aisle was really appreciated) and stocked up on lots of fresh, vital fruits and veggies and other healthy foods that grabbed my eye. I carried the bags in and informed the hubby that I was no longer going to buy junk food and that if he wanted he was more than welcome to buy it himself.. He has no weight issue and even if he did, I would  not force him into a diet he didn’t want to be a part of. Anyway, I don’t know what I expected, he just grinned and said that that was no problem because he had been through it with me three times before. He always manages to surprise me! 

So along with my commitment to be more authentic, I am upping the ante and committing to a twenty one day challenge. Organisation, clean eating, activity. I will also blog each and every one of these days, so be prepared for ranty chocolate withdrawal posts that may make you want to slap me with a trout. 

So here’s to starting day one of Project 21…. Tomorrow. 😉 

But you’re so happy!

Standard

Trying to answer the question about the relationship between weight and depression is like trying to answer the chicken and egg debate. Do I have depression because I am overweight or am I overweight because I have depression? Try saying that three times fast! It’s been on my mind a fair bit lately because I have been in a negative funk and not able to pull myself out of it. I’m not one for deluding myself. I have clinical depression, I also have anxiety and to mix it up a bit, I also have OCD. Properly diagnosed OCD, not the kind that those somewhat organised folks joke about having when other not so organised folk poke fun at them.

So I have been trying lately to pull myself up out of this negative headspace and start planning some kind of strategy to get this weight off. My husband is pulling his hair out in frustration at my negativity, I can’t even accept a compliment.. and he gives me lots of those. When you’re feeling like shit, it’s really hard to believe the positive things that other people say about you. Not to mention the fact that I have been moody.. way past moody actually. I have been more like moody’s trailer park cousin.

It hasn’t helped that I have had my period. I actually saw a really funny picture on Facebook that perfectly summed it up. It was one of those old style picture e-cards with the ridiculously profane and offensive text on it that everyone (myself included) is giggling at right now. Something to do with the 50s representation of women and men on them and the idea that there could be no way that they could be as potty-mouthed as we are now, I think.

“I’m sorry for being a hateful, foul mouthed, binge eating maniac this week. But now that I’ve got

my period, hold me & tell me I’m pretty”

But anyway, my rambling does have a point. Lately, no, all my life I have worked my ass off trying to convince people that I am happy, normal, bubbly, bouncy, content… basically everything that I am not. I have worked so hard at constructing this elaborate facade that I now wonder why on earth I didn’t just channel all of that effort and energy into getting slim and working on being happy.. The answer, well, getting slim and trying to be happy are much harder than just pretending. When I confide in people and talk about my depression, often they are shocked. “But you’re so…happy!” it doesn’t seem to fit in with this carefully constructed person that I have presented to them previously.. sometimes to me it doesn’t even seem real. It’s as though I act and I act and then I have no idea who I am underneath all of this acting.. it’s exhausting.

So, I am making a commitment. A commitment to be authentic. To be who I am, to not mask or hide how I am feeling with the glittery fakery of my act.

I am going to be less “happy” and more real. Starting today, right here right now.

Oh and if anyone is looking for me, I’ll be colour coding my socks.

The Esteemed Self… and The Hotdog.

Standard

Self esteem is a tricky thing. It’s like trying to wrestle a bear, covered in jelly. I have been wrestling with this bear for a long time and it’s not a cute and cuddly little fella either. My bear is a big, black scary type thing with massive jaws and glistening teeth. It just loves to come and take a big bite outta me and not even from my ass which could certainly do with a chunk taken out.

Why is it so difficult for women to think well of themselves? To see something positive in the mirror instead of bemoaning our ‘thunder thighs’ or other imperfections. Would we really be seen as vain, self absorbed and conceited if we acknowledged some positives? In a word, yes. I know that I would think that I was up myself if I was infront of a bathroom mirror with my homegirls and I made a positive comment about how I looked. It has been ingrained in me that the mirror is something meant for critical reflection.

I was at Southland shopping centre with my husband on saturday and I saw a sign that said that if you could eat a 25” hotdog then you would get a gift voucher for the shopping centre. I was immediately intriegued. I wanted to see this massive hotdog and possibly have a go at this challenge. When we got down there, there was a teen attempting the challenge. But he was a lightweight. I was convinced that I could do this challenge. At that point I didn’t particularly care about the scores of people that were gawking or about the photographer taking super close up shots right up the kid’s nostrils. Hubby didn’t think it was a good idea. He stood there in mutinous silence whilst I jostled and tried to get as close to the action as I could. I turned to him and said that I could do it, I could totally do it. That challenge would be my bitch and we would have a $100 shopping spree!

It didn’t seem that hard. All you had to do was eat a hotdog within five minutes, it was win-win right? Predictably the kid failed, but didn’t toss his cookies and I was gearing up to have a go. I turned to hubby and asked him if I should do it. He said NO. but….. but but but but.. Just as predictably as the kid not being able to handle the hotdog, I cracked it and walked off.

In the food court, Ironic much? I turned to him and said: “I’m already fat, so it doesn’t matter anyway!” This was after a bit of preamble, him talking about possible consequences and being very apologetic.. But I was busy thinking about what I had said. I knew I had body issues, I knew I didn’t like the way I look and that I want to change but I didn’t realise until then just how much I devalued myself. Not only was I willing to eat a nearly metre long hotdog, for money, But I also felt that that was ok because I was fat. So somehow It didn’t matter what happened to me because I was fat. It was then that I realised that I hated myself.

A bit of clarification, I know that this blog is supposed to be about weightloss, but I am not going to ever be one of those girls who will post all about the nice birdies they saw whilst they were powerwalking. I don’t post every morsel I eat or every lunge or squat I do. I instead use this blog as a bit of an electronic therapist. I projectile vomit feelings and emotions and try to throw in the odd wisecrack. I hope that you will stick with me through this. So my realisation is this. Self esteem is a hard assed, jelly covered bear and that not only do I need to work on losing weight, I need to work on gaining love for myself.