I sat in the tub staring at my legs. The pressure I felt overwhelming. My feet and ankles were swollen. I was once again retaining water.
Then I looked down at my hands seeing the new spots on them. Tiny little pimple-like spots that were brownish in colored and itchy.
Psoriasis on my hands.
My heart began racing. My mind swirling. I knew which direction it was going. I was thinking of my mom. How at 46 years old she had her first heart attack. How she got psoriasis on her hands. and the panic I felt set in just imaging it caused my breathing to increase.
I am only 43. I’m right on track.
Stepping out of the bath, I looked at myself in the mirror. The roundness of my belly. So round from weight-gain over the years that I looked almost pregnant. My tummy like a beach ball. Chubby hips. Fat thighs. The kind that rubs together when you walk so spanks are needed otherwise a fire will start. And linebacker arms that would make even the biggest football player jealous. Not to mention the triple chin I had going on. Another issue on its own accord. And I sighed.
How did I get okay with being fat?
I don’t know when it happened. I know the how. I know it was caused by a mixture of excuses. My depression. The medication I was on. Giving upon the willingness to exercise because it felt too hard. Telling myself that tomorrow I’ll start walking. Then when tomorrow came, I got to the end of the driveway before my back starting seizing up. Knowing deep down the pain was caused from carrying too much excess weight on my body. You can’t take a step with over 200lbs attached to you without feeling the burn.
What I don’t know is how I became okay with it.
I think things really hit me last week when hubby and I had a moment alone. It had been so long without any kids. We took advantage of being intimate (won’t go into the gory details) and I was on top of him. He always makes me feel beautiful and loved. But there came a moment when I leaned forward and heard the air leave his lungs. I seriously wanted to die right then and there.
Afterward, I lay next to him crying. “What’s wrong?” he asked me. And I told him how sorry I was for crushing him with my weight. Of course, he held me and told me it was okay. I didn’t crush him. But I saw it in his eyes. And I started thinking. How is this okay with him? How could I have allowed myself over the past 12 years to do this to him?
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I should be skinny for my husband to be happy. It’s just he’s my husband. I should be taking pride in myself to look good for him, even though I know he loves me for me and my weight doesn’t matter. Shouldn’t it matter to me (for him)? In all relationships, we do things to make ourselves more appealing to our partners. Wear that cologne they like. Makeup to look and feel pretty. Dress up so we feel sexy and they think we are sexy.
Yet, here I was round as a bon-bon trying to tell myself “Hey, it’s no biggie you are fat” he will love you anyhow without really taking his feelings into consideration. And don’t even get me started on my boys and what they must think. Trace is always trying to compare his double chin to mine as he’s going through a chubby (growing out then up) phase.
I know that I need to make changes. I just don’t know how. I’ve tried things in the past, and I always end up giving up on myself and the process. It becomes just too hard. Yet, isn’t it too hard the way I’m going? It is. I feel it with every single step I take. Every breath leaving my body because of how much extra effort it takes just to get up and down or walk. I hurt all over inside and out.
I hurt all over inside and out.
I’m not telling you guys this so you will feel sorry for me. Why would you? I did this–to myself. Or to give me advice, though always appreciate on how I can do this. I can lose the weight.
The truth is people change because they want to change. I need to figure out why I don’t want to change. Why do not love myself enough to make the changes I need to get healthier, lose the weight and feel happier with myself? That’s what I need to do. And sharing how I feel is just something that helps me get out the pain and anger I feel for allowing myself for things to get like this.
Me saying I’m fat isn’t body shaming either. I’m fat, it’s a truth. Fat is unhealthy. It’s not right. It puts pressure on your organs and body in a way that shouldn’t be normal. When you’re five feet and weight 200lbs you aren’t healthy. You are overweight and need to change so you can get healthy. Not just to look and feel good. But to be good. The best of who you are. And right now, I’m not the best version of myself. But can I change things?
I guess that’s up to me.