My never ending struggle with my weight has intensified. We're basically at a DEFCON 1 in my own personal battle of the bulge. Clothed, I find myself to be pleasantly plump. I'm learning to dress my postpartum body. Draping seems key. And cardigans. And scarves. Empire wastes are an absolute no no. As are hip hugging jeans that tend to hit me right under my still present belly. It's the times that I catch myself in the mirror unclothed that I have trouble. I stare, not unlike a tailgater passing the gnarled wreckage of a highway collision, at my midsection. The dimpled and indented graffitti of stretchmarks and extra fat marring the once smooth landscape of my abdomen. Women on the internet call them "tiger stripes" that I should wear like a badge of honor. I crave that self confidence, to look at them and see anything but my failure to prevent what I promised myself wouldn't happen. I study the lumps and bumps of my upper thighs and, perhaps the silver lining, I marvel at the size of my (now enormous) breasts, conscious that they are, at every moment, inflating with milk. The fat on my back - the adipose filled skin that rolls over itself under no pressure whatsoever- is my biggest nemesis. No amount of sucking in makes it go away. The thing is, I've been overweight before. I've blogged about my previous struggles. I've fought pesky pounds that won't go away. But this time it's harder, for many reasons.
I take responsibility for my part of this. I know that I have to shoulder the blame for my current inability to fit into a single pair of the pants that are currently gathering cobwebs in my closet. I would be lying if I said I had no idea why I couldn't lose the weight. The truth is that when you don't exercise and you eat whatever you want, and what you want to eat is chocolate and pizza and other foods that you're not supposed to, it's tough to drop the pounds. But this struggle of mine has been different, this time.
First, there are a lot of post partum issues that I have had that I don't want to talk about on this blog, but it's taken me almost a year to be able to walk around the block without pain. It's frustrating, especially when everyone tells you you can start exercising at 6 weeks. I registered for a jogging stroller. I had visions of Logan and I going on runs, enjoying the summer together. I had plans to sign us up for races. My truth is that at 6 weeks post partum, I could not roll out of bed without feeling like my pelvis was breaking in two. Trying to walk ended in tears. Stepping over the side of the tub to take a shower often made me double over in pain. I waited for it to get better. It didn't. Finally, at 12 weeks, I went to the doctor. She informed me that my pelvis was out of line and my bladder was falling. She sent me to a chiropractor, who assured me that it was bone and nerve related. He assigned me a 7 week long course of treatment at the end of which I could walk from my desk to the bathroom without grimacing. I could not run. I could not even walk for exercise. I tried different videos to try and work different parts of my body to try and tone up. I was unsuccessful. I was also $500 poorer from copays and extra fees for service. I considered that to be a poor return on my investment. So I went to the physical therapist. She informed me that there was nothing wrong with my pelvis or my bones, but that it was all muscular. 4 and a half hours of pushing had damaged me. My pelvic floor muscles were weak. I needed physical therapy. I had more success with her. At the end of a month of treatment, I could walk ONE MILE without pain. If I kept up the exercises she gave me, I would be fine. So I left, armed with an exercise band and a sheet of exercises to do to strengthen my pelvic floor. I'm bad at homework. I'm also alone with the baby a lot. Self care has fallen by the wayside as the need for sleep and nourishment take precedence over the need to exercise my pelvic floor. As I sit here typing this, I can actually feel my bladder. You are not supposed to be able to feel that. It's unsettling. But it's life. I haven't tried running yet. I can walk about 2 miles now without crying. That's progress. And the pain doesn't linger with me for days like it used to. Also progress.
I'm an emotional eater. I used to consider myself a stress eater, but then I realized that just about any emotion I have is an excuse for me to eat. I eat when I'm stressed about work, I eat when I'm sad about my job. I eat when I've had a good day at work. I eat because I'm stressed about Logan. I eat to reward myself if I've had a good day with Logan. I eat because I'm stressed out about Terrance being out of town and I eat because I'm so happy and relieved that he's come home. I eat because I'm frustrated that I can't do what I want. I eat because I can't run. I eat because I'm hungry, because I'm tired, because I'm sad, because I'm happy, and because I'm bored. I eat because I think something looks good and, damn it, I DESERVE it. My life is hard. Chocolate is good. I love chocolate. Not dark chocolate, not some BS Fiber One chocolate brownies; I enjoy creamy milk chocolate. Preferably by the pound. Occasionally mixed with nougat. Or nuts. Maybe hazelnuts? I do consider my life to be more colorful now that I have Nutella in it. I could write an even longer paragraph about my love of pizza, but in the interest of brevity, I will just assume that you get the point.
So what happens when you have no real metabolism to speak of, you can't exercise, and you eat whatever the hell you want? You end up sitting in front of a computer writing about how you're depressed because you're 50 pounds heavier than the day you conceived your child. My goal is to have 15 of it gone by Logan's birthday - March 3. And the rest gone by sometime after that. I'll reevaluate numbers and tonnage goals if I reach that. The point is I'm going to try. We started exercising at work. Little things, every day at 3. Hopefully, with that spark and a Costco size bottle of Advil to dull the pain, I'll be on my way. I'm also trying to cut it down to no more than
Hopefully, small daily goals + big weight goal = Happy 2015.
Wish me luck. I'm going to need it.
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