I’m so discouraged
I’m really trying to lose the weight for good, so I’ve been eating like 800-1000 calories a day and exercising… yet I’m gaining weight?
so confused
I dont think I’ll ever NOT reblog this. just because every time I see it I feel compelled to read them all in the voice and it makes me smile :)
Omg same! ahaha^
(Source: that-fit-vegan, via gettingfit-andhealthy)
I found this paper i had written last year for english.
Her Reflection
My family used to own an Old English Sheep dog. She was a big shaggy mop dog, a herder by nature. Her name was Bridget and I never once saw her unaware of what was going on in the house. This was her territory and she always had to be in control. Nipping at your butt to get you where she felt you belonged, she’d physically bump you like you were a sheep in her flock. This obsessive nature of hers, this control she had to always have, I found irritating and annoying, but really, I was always just envious.
He reached his hand around her back, tightly embracing her in what should have been a romantic, yet casual thing. Everyone was laughing, everyone was vibrant and loud and alive. She faked her smile, and giggled, but inside squirmed with an uncomfortable anxiety. “His hand grazed your belly fat. Well of course it did, there is so much how could he miss it?” the internal battle raged on, clouding her head, taking her further and further away from this reality; skin and flesh and human interaction. He’d never know how crazy she really was. He moved his hand up her spine, feeling each vertebra that she could never see when she studied herself. He’d see the signs, but turn away just like everyone else. He’d never understand that deep world in her head that dragged her down and turned her soul into the same disgusting fat that she tried so hard to rid herself of.
This is not some metaphorical reference to today’s astounding statistics of childhood obesity and this is definitely not meant to evoke any type of sympathy for the chubby eight year olds who are hopelessly teased for their extra rolls. This book is nothing special. All I want to do is maybe somehow see how feelings of hunger and pain got blurred together.
I will always relate infidelity with basement steps and wheat thin crackers. Upstairs, behind the closed door, they sat at the kitchen table at first talking viciously in hushed tones and I’d quietly sneak up a few stairs until my father would lose his perfect controlled voice and let out a burst of profanities that sent me flying to the bottom step again. I’d listen to the whole thing over the crunching of the crackers in my mouth. I wouldn’t shed a tear, but at eight years old, I’d finish that entire box. The next night, we had steak for dinner. And I finished mine even after he stabbed the knife into the table. I finished mine and the leftovers even after he yelled so hard he fell down in a faint from his rage and we all cried in fear. No more perfectly controlled voices and no more holding back tears. Everything was falling apart.
I will always relate needles with shame. Later that year my mother was instructed by our family physician to take me to get my blood drawn every three months to check my high cholesterol, which could be genetic, but we all knew it was because of the extra layers of fat I had collected. The office was filled with old people and smelled like the strong disinfectant that mom scrubbed the whole house in silence the morning after her and dad got in a big fight. I cried and cried in fear of that needle and I cried even harder in self pity that car ride home that no one had stopped me from getting so fat. This is not meant to evoke any type of sympathy for chubby eight year olds. This could be anyone’s story.
Two years from this point and my parents were still together and I could tell you how many weight watchers points were in just about anything. I’d count up my points with my mother and never once thought it was weird to be ten and know the calories in all my friend’s lunch items that I never ate. My mother and I bonded over dieting. Still today it’s an easy topic for conversation. I wonder does she ever regret how she made me see food.
You never thought I’d actually do it. You admitted to that. So you regret what you said now? Do you regret fueling my fire? Tempting me with the ability to prove you wrong? We layed in my bed and You laughed when I said I’d be at x three digit number. You’d heard it so often before, well guess what I’m one below that now. In your face, I’ve won. But wait, there’s a three digit number less then that. Oh wait there’s a three digit number less then that too. Look what you have done. Don’t you like what you see?
I will always relate playgrounds with embarrassment. “Why are you scared? If you fall, your blubber will save you anyways!” I’ll never forget that Frank. Did you mean to make that nine year old girl hate herself that much? Did you ever think she’d remember your words all these years later? You said your apology note blew out your window and I let your lie slide. You were the cool kid in the neighborhood; Molly and I would watch you from her bedroom window play hockey in your driveway. Maybe I shouldn’t have let your lie slide; maybe I shouldn’t have let your second lie slide. I don’t know why I continued to let you make me cry.
You never thought I’d actually do it. And now you want to take your words back. Now I am a bad person, now I am out of control? Control is all I want, all I ever wanted. You gave me that final push to grab that control. It was easier than I thought. You’d praise me when I’d tell you every pound I shed and now my pride meets your scolds, so I keep it inside. “It’s the winter,” I say, “Its only the winter.” Don’t you realize all I’ve wanted was to make you happy? That’s all I’ve ever wanted.
I’d been taking ballet since I was a toddler. I loved the pink leotards and frilly tutus. I dreamed of the day I graduate to pointe shoes, the ones the big girls wore that gave them the super power of standing on their toes. I loved the few moments when I actually felt graceful and pretty, leaping through the air, my hair tightly pulled into a neat bun. While everyone else played soccer and basketball, I danced. Yet even ballet could not free me completely. I’ll always relate tights to the two happy meals mom would get me from the McDonalds drive through every night after rehearsal. Being a ballerina was my dream, until that last recital and I cannot remember the last time a McDonalds fry or burger has touched my lips.
This book is nothing special. Lots of children’s parents fight. Lots of children’s parents do a lot worse then mine. My parents never hit me, never abandoned or neglected me. I always had nice clothes and toys and a dentist visit twice a year. This book is nothing special. Lots of children are overweight. Lots of children never lose weight and end up immobile, obese, and die young. This book is but a number on a scale, meaningless unless it’s personal, a cold and emotionless fact unless it’s your own, just another number unless you have something to relate it to.
There’s video of me at Sea World. A tiny four year old licking a vanilla Shamoo ice cream as it drips on my sundress in the Florida heat. At some point I was normal. Weren’t we all at one point in our lives? We’d take a trip to Coco every summer. I never spent my birthday at home. I’d always had the image of vacations being a time for family bonding, for fun and happy memories. I guess that’s what life is, a journey of façades shattered. It leads me to wonder, are we changed by an instant, one specific event, or does the course of our life shape, or destruct us, like an ice cream melting in an environment that it wasn’t designed for?
