Perspective

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It’s been a long time since I wrote a blog. I was tempted to go back and check the date of the last post, but that would involve rereading it, and I really don’t want to do that. I don’t even know why I feel the need to resurrect the blog, aside from the slight pangs of guilt I get when I get a new follower, or when I get comments full of admiration and positivity from people who only know me from the words I wrote when I thought I knew what the fuck I was doing with my life. Yeah! That kinda tells you all you need to know!

I don’t run anymore, and I miss it. I’m not skinny anymore, and I miss that even more. This time two years ago, I was recovering from a slight hangover after celebrating a friends wedding the day before. I remember getting dressed in the hotel room and my clothes felt tight on me. I felt uncomfortable all day. And that’s when everything went tits up. I had decided in some irrational and warped way that I had messed everything up. That, despite having run 26 miles three weeks beforehand, I felt that I was fat and unfit and that all my hard work had been undone. The next week was my grandmothers 90th birthday, and I remember not wanting to leave the kitchen because I feared people noticing that I had gained weight.

In reality, I had gained seven pounds, most of which was more than likely still lying in my stomach from the wedding and the hangover food the next day. But by that time, numbers were all that mattered and I couldn’t see anything past that. Without realising it, numbers became an unhealthy preoccupation early on in the slimming journey; but because the numbers were getting smaller, it was fun to keep my eye on them. However, when it becomes the norm to weigh yourself three times a day, maybe it wasn’t the best idea in the world. November rolled into Christmas, and I managed to get rid of that 7 pound gain before Christmas Eve – thankfully! But I still felt fat.

I have always felt fat. Even at my lightest. In the recent past, I’ve read over some of my old blog posts, and it seems to me now that this has been less of a weight loss blog and more of a mental health blog. The rantings about hitting twelve stone, the nit-picking over running times etc – talk about getting things out of perspective. So for all of 2013, and a fair portion of this year, I have been swaying between being on plan and crashing spectacularly off plan. In those two years, I’ve gained three stone. When I started training for the marathon, I had to embrace food as fuel; but had spent the previous 12 months being very regimented on the Slimming World Original plan (low carb essentially). I didn’t know what to do, how to adapt to the change, and that’s when the uncertainty crept in. I started taking irrational measures to maintain my weight, a theme that continued into this year. These irrational measures achieved nothing apart from cementing my difficult relationship with food and with my own self esteem, and putting my health at risk. And all because I can’t stand what I see in the mirror.

January of this year was when everything came to a head. I spent some time after this having mental health sessions after a referral from my GP. Not counselling as such, but just some chats to figure out why I’ve been flitting between bouts of depression and sadness since I was about 14. Turns out the only thing that’s wrong with me is ‘chronic low self esteem’. Negative self talk, beating myself up mentally, low self-worth, that kind of stuff. The medicine? Positive affirmations, becoming aware of negative self-talk, speaking positively about myself, generally giving myself a break. I would say that, ten months on, I’m giving myself more of a break than I used to. I’m realising that nobody really gives a fuck what weight I am; people have their own stuff to worry about. I’m not 21 stone anymore. It’s been 5 years since I was that weight. But I am 16 stone, and I don’t want to look the way I do now. I want to look how I did a couple of years ago, except I want to look happy too. The constant worrying about food, diet, looks and image tired me out beyond belief, and continues to do so. Hopefully I find a happy level, regardless of the numbers.

I’m sorry I don’t blog very much anymore, but I would have felt like a fraud. I had nothing good to say. I’m starting a new healthy eating plan tomorrow, and hopefully I’ll have something good to write about this time next week. I have never been short of love and support in my life, and I am so grateful to those who gave me that in spades; even when I was the most difficult bastard to be with. Please God I’ll start to see myself the way some others do, and then I can start to be content. So the thought for the day is: Give yourself a break once in a while. Your mistakes will bring you to where you need to be.

Bye bye

McCooey

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