Yesterday was killer. I don't know what it was that knocked me down like it did, but I'm still not completely up again.
Some days are like this.
There are days when I feel like I can take on the world. Give me any chance, I'll take it. Give me any rule, I'll break it.
But there are other days, like yesterday...
I didn't want to get out of bed. I was supposed to run with Kim, but it was raining. Not just raining, but really, really raining in a gray, depressing kind of way. I was going to cancel our run, but Kim, being the ever-encouraging walking/running partner that she is, found a way around the dilemma and got us into the local club for the day. We did the treadmill for an hour, and it was absolutely no fun. I hate the televisions and the noise and the heat and the whole being-on-a-treadmill feeling. I'm much more of a nature girl, really. But we did it, and I think the little blinking lights said that I burned like 325 calories or something. Kind of depressing. Not really even a meal's worth.
And then I weighed myself. I weigh 185 right now. 185! That's terrible. I never, ever, ever want to weigh myself again. I guess it doesn't help that I used to be 110. I guess it doesn't help that I topped out at 180 when I was nine-months pregnant with my first child. I guess it doesn't help when I see that other people can lose a whole person in ten months, because I'm totally not interested in eating fake fats and counting everything I put in my mouth. I don't want to live that way, really. I just want to find a healthy, happy balance. I want to enjoy my life and not hate my body.
Yesterday, when I came home from the gym, I spent time wtih my kids for a while, reading and talking and laughing, and then I got really, really tired. By three o'clock, I crashed. I couldn't stay awake any longer. It didn't really matter if the house was burning down, or if my childen were shooting each other. I...just...needed...to...sleep. It was all I could do.
So, I closed my eyes and slept. For three hours, I slept.
When I awoke, my head was splitting open and there were angry thoughts in it.
I spent the entire rest of the evening in bed. My husband brought me wine and peanuts. My daughter brought me toast and eggs. I tried using my sinus mask, but it didn't help. I drank another glass of wine. Finally, I asked for ibuprofen, and I went to sleep.
This morning, I still didn't want to get out of bed. Is this illness or depression or what? But I did get out of bed, and I did actually go with Kim and we did actually run. Not three miles, or seven miles, or ten miles, or a marathon, but we ran. We ran a total of twelve minutes with intervals of walking in between.
Why doesn't that make me feel better? Why is it that I feel worse about myself right this minute, in my size-twelve thrift store pants, than I felt six months ago in my size-sixteen jeans? Why am I suffering this anxiety, that I'll never lose weight? That I'll be 185 forever? That I'll have to eat nothing and like it in order to look the way I want to look?
I don't know. Maybe this will pass. But today, I just want to go to bed and cry.
I might just do that.
Talk amongst yourselves. I'll return to my normal program following this plunge into depression.
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