First things first, this morning was weigh in. I think being sick played a big part in this weeks loss, but I don’t care, I’ll take it! I’m on track to be down almost 60lbs by my birthday early next year. That’s my first major goal. I’ll see how I feel/look when I get there, but at the moment, it’s looking positive. Which, as some of you might know, is a huge deal given that I tried (and tried and tried) for the first 10 months of living here to lose weight without a single ounce of success or hope. It really brought me down (which, wasn’t overly difficult since I was still adjusting to live here in Houston) and made me depressed and unhappy.
I’ve had a weight problem since I was about 11 so this is nothing new for me, it’s easy for me to find the motivation and determination and no amount of bad food around the house can tempt me to ‘cheat’ when I’m set on losing weight. However, when you’re doing everything you’re told to do, you check all the boxes and nothing happens – it’s tough. Your determination takes a knock every week when you step on the scales and you sink lower. Your fighting spirit starts to wane and if you’re like me, you comfort eat when you’re depressed or stressed so the scale definitely goes the wrong way then!
I’m not ashamed to admit that I sought medical guidance to help me a few months ago. I was at the end of my tether; I was trying everything that I could think of, everything that was working for other people and everything we are told to do when we want to lose weight. And nothing. My friends and I emailed each other weekly to share our successes and keep each other motivated and I was always the one saying ‘Nothing again, I just don’t get it’. So, I decided to talk to a professional. I walked in to the Doctors office and basically told her to sign me up for surgery – I was that miserable. She told me to try it her way first before making any rush decisions, to which I replied, that it wasn’t a rush decision, it had been coming for about 14 years but that I’d try it her way. 
Two and a half months later I’m just over a stone down, my hope has been restored, my determination renewed and my wedding dress – the immediate motivation. Hopefully, by the time I walk down the aisle, I’ll be the guts of 40lbs lighter. Even if I’m not I’ll be well on my way. It’s a marathon – not a sprint.
This picture – of me in my formal dress? That’s my ultimate motivation. To get back to that.
I wrote a blog yesterday from my sickbed which, I’ll admit was pretty dark. I haven’t had a good couple of weeks personally. Some things happened that left me extremely hurt and upset that haven’t been resolved and yesterday I kind of poured my heart out into a word document. When I asked Col to read it (as I do before I post all of my blog entries) I could see that he was upset by it (he doesn’t like seeing me upset) so I decided not to post it. I feel a little better having gotten it all out on to paper, Col tells me it’s cause writing helps me process, I suppose he’s right.
I hate being sick, mainly because I often find myself battling with an odd dichotomy. On one hand, I want to be nursed and cared for, brought ice cream and given cuddles, while on the other, my independence asserts itself and I maintain that I can indeed do everything for myself and I need no help.
I’m sure my Jekyll and Hyde routine is exhausting for poor Col but he always goes above and beyond for me. Always. For example, on Tuesday, he came home from work early (around 3pm) sporting a paper bag from Panera Bread and its contents? A delicious tub of hot, fresh, French onion soup and a bread roll – it was the first thing I ate all day as my throat issues are making it hard to swallow. After I ate, he put me to bed and when I woke up a few hours later, he brought me ice cream, cooked me super noodles and gave me a foot rub before I went back to sleep. Ok, he’s certainly not perfect, but yesterday he came pretty close!
I suppose it’s highly possible that I’ve managed to stress myself into getting sick. I guess it should come as no surprise, it’s ‘classic’ Lasairiona that I try to take on the world, try to fix everything at once and end up in bed sucking on icepops and sipping lemsip – leaving Col to fend for himself with super noodles, working at home until 9 or 10pm and trying to look after someone who only half the time will allow herself to be looked after!
While lying in my bed, unable to surf the web, I started hunting through old files on my laptop. I found this from an old piece I had written, 5 years ago, (pre-Col) that I thought was funny given what I’m currently going through,
I’ve always been emotional, I can’t watch a soppy film, an advert for a third world country, listen to a soppy song, (or watch America’s got Talent and watch a bunch of homeless veterans sing) without welling up. I cry easily, and love without question. I like to think that there’s good in everyone and I try so hard to see it all the time. If I were honest, I’d say I’m a little more than a little naïve and believe that there is hope for everyone, that the world could be the ideal that everyone wishes it were.
I’m still a little girl, trapped, screaming inside the body of a young woman, I’m a walking cliché; I want the fairy tale wedding to my handsome prince, a big dress, a big venue, a big guest list, and a big cake! Although I understand it can’t always be rosy and sugar coated, there’s not a day goes past that I don’t will it to be. In saying all of that, when realism jumps up and bites me in the ass I figure I must have been a child killer in a previous life to deserve some of the shit thrown unto me, especially in the last few years, either that or I’m getting punished for someone else’s crime and boy, they musta been hanus!
I’ve always wanted friends, I’ve always wanted to fit in and I guess part of my big fairy tale wedding plan is that I’ll finally be accepted, my friends my family, my man, and the beginning of what is supposed to be a long and happy life. I suppose I’m waiting for an event in my life to suddenly change my fortunes, from being the accident prone gal that everything bad happens to, to the happy and successful woman who found herself and came into her own.
Sitting here, I realise that I finally got what I have always wanted. My handsome prince arrived into my life when I’d just about given up all hope of ever finding him and you know what? The rest doesn’t matter. The big guest list, the cake, the dress – none of it matters.
I have found someone to love me unconditionally, to support me, to laugh with me, to dry my tears and most of all to accept me, for me – something I’ve been searching for, for a very long time.
Things are definitely not perfect and my fortunes haven’t changed quite as much as I’d have liked them to, but I’m happy, I’m successful and I’m most certainly starting to come in to my own.
I guess what I didn’t know back then was that being successful isn’t as cut and dry as I thought it was. Having a good, high paying job doesn’t mean you’re successful while at the same time, not having a job at all doesn’t mean that you’re not.
An old friend of mine once told me that I have a ‘lil’ light inside me, a candle that shines through everything; it’s never put out, no matter what I go through and has the ability to brighten anyone’s day, even at the darkest of hours. I always laughed at her, especially when she told me I had a good soul and the power to do good things because people listened to me. I guess it’s the people closest to us who can see our strengths a lot clearer than we can ourselves.
I’m certainly more than a little rough around the edges, but I get my grit and determination from my dad. I hope that above all else he is proud of who I am, first and foremost of the woman I have grown up, with his guidance, to be. No amount of qualifications, medals, certificates or a full resume will ever attest to who I am as a person and I have recently grown to realise that I’d rather be hated for who I am, than loved for something I’m not.
