I thought I had hit rock bottom each time I vowed to lose weight. I'd go gang-bustah's (that's my Massachusetts Masshole accent coming out) and exercise every day and eat whatever the "diet" or "life-style" meal plans dictated. I'd do good for months, but then 6 months in, 9 months in or a year later of seeing results, feeling great, and looking pretty good, I'd begin to slip into old habits quickly losing everything I gained and the scale would move right back up to where I started and then some.
Never did I know what rock bottom truly was until this past December. I was a year into gaining back the 40 pounds I'd lost the previous year. In the spring of 2013, after watching my sister's 49 year old ex-husband, die from the complications that arise from being morbidly obese, I swore I'd succeed and I'd never, ever, ever yo-yo again. But, just like the countless times before, I stopped what was working and slowly went back to bad habits. Over the course of 2014, I gained back all that I had lost.
I had attempted to get back to eating healthier and working out a few times in the summer and the fall. I made a weekly tracking sheet that I posted in my bathroom for the world to see. I attempted to shame myself into wanting to get back in the saddle, but it failed. I recorded my weight on that chart since September 2nd, 2014, and every week there was another pound added. I was miserable. I was disappointed in myself. I was embarrassed to face my co-workers and friends. Here I did it again.... I made a complete ass out of myself, by showing that I can lose the weight, but lo and behold I can't keep it off. It was devastating, as it always is. Here I was, showing the world what a failure I was. I'm sure for other yo-yo'ers I'm not alone in feeling ashamed and embarrassed. But, for me, I am an extremely competitive person. I always have been. Heck, I gloat when I beat a 7 year old at Uno for goodness sake. Competitiveness is in my genes. I can't help it. It's what makes me who I am as a mother, wife, teacher, and sister. So, for me to fail again was absolutely devastating. And, this time it happened in front of an entirely new population of friends and co-workers. We moved from our home state of Massachusetts to the mountains of Virginia in 2012. In 2013, I was 100% determined to never gain a single pound that I lost. It made gaining the weight back harder than ever before. I dreaded going back to work at the end of summer break.
I started the tracking sheet in September because my parents told us at that time, they would like to take our three kids to Florida over Christmas break. I was beyond excited. My hunk and I were going to have 6 entire days kid-free! It was the first time in 12 years, 10 months, 22 days, 12 hours, and 34 minutes that we were going to be kid free for more than 22 hours. I couldn't wait to spend that time with him going to museums, exploring beaches, and reconnecting to each other in every way you can imagine.
But, it didn't turn out that way at all. And it was for one reason alone. My body hurt. I had gained the last of the 10 pounds I had lost and weighed in at 228 pounds. My body was in chronic pain. On a scale from 1 to 10, my pain was at a 9. I could barely walk. I couldn't sleep. To sit or stand was excruciating. I had gone to the chiropractor for weeks before our big trip to no avail. The adjustments would work for a day or two, but I always had some discomfort. Then the pain would be back in full force. I walked like a cripple and felt like my 95 year old grandfather. I tossed and turned night after night because my muscles and joints hurt so much. I had numbing in my hands and would wake up with pins and needles in my hand even though I wasn't even laying on that arm. I had chronic shoulder and hip pain. My legs were swollen from the "water" weight. My brain was in a fog half the time because I was preoccupied by my pain. I had chronic heart burn and headaches. I was a walking mess. I popped Aleve and ibuprofen nearly every day to help calm the muscle and joint aches and pains.
The kids left on the 19th and Joe and I started our vacation on the 20th driving down to one of my bucket list destinations....Asheville, North Carolina. Being a huge fan of the Victorian era, I couldn't wait to spend a few days at the Biltmore Estate. If you've ever been there, you know how freaking huge that mansion is and how big the estate is. Well, it was the worst time for me because I could barely walk. Within an hour of waking, my body was falling apart. I literally had a death grip on my husband because I couldn't walk without his assistants. Seriously, what kind of life was this, I thought? I'm 39 years old and feel like an elderly dementia patient in need of a double hip replacement, a double knee placement, and a lobotomy. At one point during our vacation, I thought that if God took me that day, I'd be fine. I honestly thought I'd be better off dead than alive. That is how much pain I was in. I came to terms with it and thought for sure I was dying.
But, God had a bigger plan. He wasn't giving up on me yet, even if I had already given up on myself.
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