Today, after two months of treatment/rehab on my lower back and knees, I again venture into the gym. I did a light workout. As usual, it was like hauling a 50 pound sack of potatoes up a steep hill to get my ass in the door. As usual, I felt much better coming out.
But it's so familiar. Here I am again, at the bottom of this hill. Losing weight you've lost once or twice or three times already....is there anything more discouraging? And yet it's the fate of mothers everywhere; it's also the fate of so many of us who take psychotropic meds. A friend who, over the years has lost roughly 100 pounds (much of it put there by side-effects of psychiatric meds), writes, "Slow is really the best way most of the time, I have found, like water shaping stone. Change does happen, real change. ...For me, it has been a process of seven years. That is not fast. But lots of baby steps. And going backwards plenty of times....I really have respect for what you're endeavoring to do."
That word--"respect"--struck me. I've never respected my body much. Years ago, a (very) former boyfriend said to me as we stood in line at the movies, "You're going to have to do something about your weight. I don't want to be 50 and have a whale for a wife." Boy, do I remember that remark..as did, no doubt, the five or six people who must have overheard it. It practically left a physical scar.
But I am longing for wholeness these days. Healing. Some sort of peace about my body. Not a perfect body, but a healthier body, and one that I don't abuse or disrespect. So: baby steps. One step at a time. I'm going to listen to my friend this time. Hers is the voice that matters, and other friends who have nothing but support to offer. The rest of this mental crap I've been hanging onto I'm going to jettison (metaphorically) at the bottom of the sea. Which is where the old boyfriend belongs, come to think of it.