Note: Oh man, you probably shouldn’t read this post because all I’m doing is whining and wondering what everything means.
This morning, as I’ve done almost every Saturday morning since I started this lovely project over three years ago, I dragged my ass out of bed and weighed myself for my weekly weigh in. The needle flopped back and forth between 154 and 155. I noted the number, shook my head at my mid-week eating behavior of bingey pasta dishes and ice cream, and had the sense to acknowledge to myself that the two pound drop was merely the moving and scuffling around within what is clearly a weight range I’m maintaining. I posted the weigh in here, reported the results to my WW page, and then I made myself a cup of coffee, sat on my couch to drink it, and wondered what was the point of it all.
I’ve been wondering that a lot this week.
I started strong. Saturday’s workout consisted of running on the treadmill (I didn’t do half bad!), a new core routine, and my upper body weights routine, plus some stretching and limbering up. Sunday I went for a walk around my neighborhood. Not really a workout, and I didn’t count it as such, but I got up and moved around. Monday I went for a run in my neighborhood, and while it was short (2.5 miles), my time was decent. It looked like a solid start.
But then Tuesday, I cheerfully ate a giant chile verde burrito for lunch instead of the soup and salad I’d planned, and from then on it was off and on: sometimes binge-y, sometimes not. I skipped yoga that night, and from then on, I pretty much laughed at the idea of working out again for the week. I started sleeping too much and was sluggish and withdrawn at work (my boss even checked on me yesterday out of concern, since I didn’t seem my “usual self” at the our Thursday meeting). I almost bailed on a couple of plans I’d made with friends. So let’s see: sudden loss of motivation, hard to get out of bed in the morning, hard to focus at work, low energy, not wanting to see people, and stress eating mindlessly. All my classic symptoms of a mini depression.
So what happened? Good question.
Probably first and foremost, it’s this thing with the new guy, who’s not so new anymore and is probably going to be the gone guy in a week or so. Suffice it to say that things seem to have changed between us while I was in Guatemala, and last Saturday’s date was awkward and off somehow. And then I didn’t hear from him all week. Whatever’s going on with him, it’s clear he’s pulling away. That makes me tremendously sad, of course (he was so wowsa!), and I am really not a fan of the disappearing act — I’d much rather it just end officially and upfront than get dragged out. But these are things I can’t control, and I know he’s going through a lot right now, so while this is sad, it kind of makes sense.
So that brought me down.
And made me feel tremendously tired. Dating baffles me, really. It’s strange that you can be so intimate with someone and then not anymore. The idea of going through this over and over again until I meet “the one” is exhausting.
So that brought me down, too.
Who is the one, anyway, and why am I expending so much effort searching for him? Why do I feel like this is some kind of project, like my other projects: with a goal and mini deadlines and plans and aggressiveness? Isn’t it profoundly fucked up that the language I keep using when I talk about this includes “making it happen,” like a quality relationship is something I’m going to hammer into existence? What happened to the affection and delight between the new guy and me? Where did it go? Did my eagerness drive it off? Can I only inspire a month or so of good times? Am I fundamentally unlovable?
All those thoughts also brought me down.
When I posted my weight this morning on the Weight Watchers website, I felt a profound sense of disgust. What is this, I thought. Why am I still weighing in after all these years? Have I still not achieved my goal? I’ve basically been maintaining my weight since October, and it’s a good one — 155 pounds or thereabouts, at 5’8, is healthy and the goal of so many bloggers that I follow or have followed. I was told three times this week that I look “skinny.” Why can’t I be satisfied with that? Why am I designing up stupid beach body plans as if the fact that I’ve managed to lose 105 pounds isn’t a good enough victory? On the other hand, what’s wrong with wanting to work on my body? I live in Los Angeles, after all, the city of great bodies, and I just want to fit in. Fuck that, I just want to feel acceptable to myself. Why has that remained so elusive?
All that has been swirling around in my head all morning. All week, really. All that has been interrupting my workout mojo. All that has been triggering me to eat away the feelings. All that is pointing me down an unhappy road.
Essentially, folks, I can’t really go on like this. After months of anxiety this winter and now what seems to be the classic symptoms of an encroaching depression, I can’t keep wading through this on my own. From relationships to body image issues to the lingering weight loss project that I just can’t seem to bring to a conclusion, it’s clear that I need help. So. I’ve finally done it: found a therapist and booked an appointment (this Monday!). I’ve been talking about it since December, but now it’s actually in gear. I’m scared but excited. Therapy for me has always been difficult and strained but always, always beneficial in profound ways, and I’m ready — I think — for the next step in this journey.