Truthfully, Regretably

I had a small meltdown Monday morning.

I put on a pair of capris that I've been wearing for three years, a pair that's on the big end of the spectrum in my closet, and they were snug. Too snug to wear.

Enter Mac truck.

Ker-WHAM!

I stood there and started screaming.

"Are you happy now? Do you know what you're doing? What the hell is going on with you? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?"

My mind was flipping through images faster than I could process.

I remembered the first time I wore these pants. It was the day of our annual Air Show party and I had just gotten under 170 pounds. I was feeling so skinny. That very morning I ran 5 miles non-stop on my treadmill for the first time ever and I was flying high, ready to take on the world.

I remembered how it felt when I broke 160 ... a number I never thought possible. I felt so powerful. So strong.

I remembered how those capris got put on a back shelf in my closet because they were just too big to wear ... they didn't "show off" my new body enough.

And then I remembered all of the clothes I've been avoiding all summer because I knew they don't fit. Like the black pants I was wearing the day my dad went into the hospital ... the same pair I wore to his visitiation. They, too, were essentially too big then and I secretly loved how loose they were on my hips. I tried them on once this summer and couldn't wear them. So I folded them back up and put them back on the shelf as if they didn't exist.

My head started reeling with all of those old feelings of terror and disappointment and self-loathing.

"FAILING! You're failing. You got lucky, managed to lose a little. But you obviously didn't learn anything and you are not capable of staying on top of this. You are a failure. A sham. A poser. A complete fraud. You don't have what it takes to win. People are laughing at you because they know you're failing. They can see what's going on. You're not hiding this from anyone."

Pffffffffffffffttt. Balloon deflated.

Tears sprang into my eyes as I looked at my closet. I could asses instantly the stuff that fit and the stuff that didn't.

And then I shook my head. I shook and I shook and I shook.

I'm NOT the same person I was then. I know how to do this. I have to figure out why and I have to fix it.

In the end, it's not about pants. It's not about what anyone else is saying. It's not even about the voices in my head.

It's about me. Making decisions that are good for me. Making decsions that make my life better.

I have been on this stupid merry-go-round for a year. I have publicly declared on this blog that I'm going to start over, do it right, get back on track too many times to count.

This is not another one of those times.

I'm pissed at me. I'm tired of complaining about it. I'm embarrassed.

And none of that matters.

Exercising my guts out doesn't matter if I'm not eating right.

It's time to stop lying to myself about how I'm eating. Or why I'm eating.

This is a choice. It always has been.

Read it here: It's a Choice