This post has been wandering around in the back of my mind for months, but I was really hoping to wait until the end of my weight-loss journey to write it. Alas, that end seems to be a distant pinprick of light that never comes closer. I decided I'd go ahead and write it now before I lose all of those precious thoughts.
By the end of August this year, I'd lost 45 pounds. I'd hoped to have continued that downward trend during the last three months, but I seem to have hit a dreaded plateau. My weight has stayed within the same pound or two since August 27, and no change is in sight. Now, don't get me wrong: I'm thrilled to be maintaining the loss without any significant effort, and I'm sure if I put my mind to it I could start losing again. I think I mostly just needed a break.
But I'm jumping ahead of myself. See, what I wanted to do was write not about how I lost weight (eat less, exercise more), but what I was thinking during that time. I suspect my thoughts were pretty typical...and a little scary.
Through August I was very carefully counting calories, keeping my daily total somewhere under the amount it would take to lose about a pound a week. In the beginning, I could eat about 1950 calories per day, more if I exercised. That's really a fair amount of food, but for the first 6-8 weeks, I was constantly, stomach-gnawingly hungry all of the time. All of the time! It was horrid. One day, though, in the middle of the day, it suddenly occurred to me that I wasn't painfully hungry any more. Understand, I was still hungry A Lot, but not in the same way.
During the first 12 weeks, I lost about 13 pounds. I rejoiced with every pound. I stood sideways in front of the mirror every morning to see if my belly was any flatter (honestly, I still do). As the weeks went on, I almost worried that I was losing weight too fast. I'd purposely targeted a pound a week because it's supposed to be a sustainable amount of weight to lose, and I sure as hell don't want to gain it all back! Through the summer, I was closer to averaging two pounds a week, still a reasonable amount.
I started to notice an increased awareness of my relationship with food. I'm not an "emotional" eater - I might occaisionally search the cupboards in vain for a snack when I'm bored, but I don't tend to eat when I'm sad or angry or frustrated (or happy, for that matter). I like food, but I don't rely on it for comfort. What bothered me was the guilt I started to feel around eating and exercising. On days I don't get a good hour of cycling or running in, I find myself thinking that I don't deserve to eat, that I didn't earn the right to food.
Seriously, how ridiculous is that?
I've also noticed a strange flip-flopping of my body image. On the one hand, I'm proud of how much weight I've lost and know I look a lot better than I did a year ago. The clothes I'm willing to wear have changed - I'm less likely to try to hide under them. On the other hand, it's really hard not to focus on how much further I have to go. Every morning in the mirror I can see all the lumps and rolls that are concealed by my wardrobe during the day. When I stand sideways and look at my belly, it's never as flat as I want it to be. I am looking damn good...in comparison to how I looked before.
This whole self-image thing just sucks.
I'd hoped that the second 45 pounds would have been gone by the time I wrote this so that I could report that I'd reached some sort of blissful nirvana, or at least a bit of mental peace. Of course, I realize that will never happen. I am an American woman, after all. It's my lot in life to be forever dissatisfied with my appearance.
