Ugh. I'm overweight. I didn't used to be. But from my mid-20's on, the weight trickled on and just didn't go away. Then one day I woke up and saw...a blimp in the mirror. Ok, well not a blimp. Just a rotund woman with a very flabby tummy, inner thighs that rubbed, and a chin and a half. Granted, 4 pregnancies contributed to the tummy - and the saddle bag thighs. But that's no excuse.
The year after my second child was born I went on a health kick. I attended aerobics twice a week, joined a gym, went to Weight Watchers and dropped 45 pounds. A lot! But then a major heavy project got in the way. I worked round the clock for 2 months. That led to a serious case of Bronchitis. An asthma diagnosis and massive allergies then attacked. And you get the picture. Welcome back pounds!
Jump 10 years, and I actually was so engrossed in my family and life that I lost 10 pounds. That was the Golden Year. Not because I was 10 pounds lighter, but because life was just so good. Rufus and I were closer than ever, Cassie and Chris were doing great, we were way in the black and traveling all over the lower 48. And to top it off, I got pregnant again. Nine months later, and the bottom dropped out. Our third child was stillborn. It was devastating. A lot I won't talk about now.
I got pregnant again three months later, and the Year from Hell ensued. You may wonder why I call it the Year from Hell. Imagine having a perfect pregnancy where nothing could go wrong, but then having your child die at birth. Then imagine the total opposite; a pregnancy in which everything that could go wrong did. Gestational Diabetes, Pre-term Labor, a botched Amnio, 4 months bed rest. It was a wonder I didn't lose my mind. I think that there were days, though, that I did. Gabriel was born at 36 weeks; practically perfect in every way. I had post-partum depression for the first year. Not fun.
And since then, the weight has been creeping up. I often think that part of it is due to undiagnosed depression, slight though it may be. I'm on Prozac. I'm not afraid to admit it. I'm a realist. I know I can't get through the day without some way to level out. I could do alcohol or drugs or even tobacco. But I won't do tobacco - too painful for the lungs. I don't want to do alcohol - regularly. Loss of control. As for drugs - loss of all that is valuable to me; my family. So, Prozac it is. Sure does make me much easier to live with. And trust me, I spiral down the toilet quickly if I miss even a day.
So, here I am; F.A.T. Most of the time I can delude myself into thinking I'm not that fat. But in those unguarded moments, I catch myself in the mirror, and the pooches and pouches are glaringly apparent. So, what do I do about it? Well, last June Rufus and I joined the Lifestyle Gym that opened down the street. I worked out for about 5 months with a trainer, but that got too expensive. I'm working out now on my own. Rufus works out with one of his buddies. I'd much rather work out alone - helps me stay focused.
In 6 months, I've lost 12 pounds. It's some but not enough. And I'm finally starting to realize that working out alone just won't cut it. Yes, I've modified my diet. But obviously not enough. I've been talking to a trainer and a well-educated friend, and I finally realize I've got to bite the bullet. No bread! I have GOT to cut the carbs! I'll starve for 2 weeks getting my body used to the new eating plan. I don't know how I'll make it!
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