I haven’t written a lot about fitness lately. Actually, I haven’t written much about anything lately. Work’s been insane, but that’s not the real reason I haven’t written.
I’ve gained a bit over 47 pounds since my lowest mark on the scale. That low came in February, 2014. I started gaining not too long after that as Heather and I went through what we’ve come to dub Bungate: her pregnancy, miscarriage, and hysterectomy that put us through our paces in 2014 in pretty much every way. We were tested emotionally, physically, financially, spiritually, you name it. Our fitness suffered for it because she couldn’t work out, and I wouldn’t leave her. I gained a few pounds due to my sudden lack of activity. No big deal.
Then I gained a few more. No big deal. We kept at it and worked out a little and rode in the 2014 Dehydrator. As the year turned over to 2015, we binged a bit and enjoyed the holidays. We’d had a horrible year and it felt good to end on a high note. I gained a few more pounds.
“I’ll get serious about weight loss in 2015,” I thought to myself. “That’s when I’ll get back on the cart and finish this out. It’s just a break.” I gained a few more pounds.
More financial worries, then Heather took a new full time job, shuttering her business for a while as we and the economy caught our breath. We cut every expense we could to rebuild our savings as much as possible. Our now-seldom used gym memberships were the 2nd thing to go, right after cable TV. We rode in the 2015 Dehydrator, going farther than previous years, but I couldn’t help but wonder how much better I would have done if I hadn’t gained 25 pounds.
I gained a few more pounds. My clothes didn’t fit any more. I had to dig out my supersize clothes, the ones I had just put away a year before. I’d told myself I was never going to wear them again. My heart broke as I put them on.
Shame. My god, the shame I felt. The self-loathing and hatred came back in full force. It had never gone; it just waited and rested and gained strength as I lost it.
There are a lot of excuses, a lot of reasons, and a lot of failures, and they all added up to make me not even want to talk about it. I was back on a fast track to an early death. Honestly, I think that train left the station a long time ago, but I was actively stoking the boilers again.
Today, as I was walking to work, I got winded. I wasn’t carrying a load beyond myself. My windbreaker, which I bought two years ago, barely zips shut over me. I’m supposed to go camping this winter, and I’m worried I’ll break the cot. I haven’t worried about that for two years.
I came home today and portioned out my snacks. I’m not going to be stupid and throw them out, but I’m done eating them from the box. I logged my first honest day into MFP in 6 months or more. My shoulder hurts and my elbow hurts and my knee hurts and I have no idea what exercise I can do at home without my gym membership, but I’ll figure that out as I lose weight and heal.
I know, intellectually, that setbacks are inevitable. Even though I gained back nearly 50 pounds, I am still down over 100 pounds from my high point. When I realized that, I realized that I hadn’t failed yet. There’s a huge difference between knowing setbacks will come and living through one that lasts for over a year. When you come out the other side, it’s like you woke up from a dream. I may not make it to my goal weight, but if I don’t, I’m going to die on the way down.
No more fucking around.
I’m back on the cart, as of 6:21PM on the 21st of December, 2015.
This time I’m mad.