Trudging back in.

I had just one giant bitch of a week, and I decided to wait until I stopped lavishing in my own misery to write about it so I could at least look back with some perspective on things, and so now I'm back...2 pounds heavier but hopefully with some sort of plan for moving forward.

A very heavy depression descended on me this week...one of those where I'm honestly concerned about whether or not it will ever lift, and for awhile yesterdy while I sat in my car in the dark garage for thirty minutes because I couldn't will my body to get up out of it I really didn't think I was ever going to be able to think clearly again. Lots and lots of stress and exhaustion and tension and stupid adult problems with banks and cell phones and insurance companies sort of just kept building and building until I freaked and spent a lot of time eating various forms of fried chicken...chicken on buns, chicken dipped in gravy, chicken shaped into tiny balls and crammed into my gaping maw by barbecue sauce stained fingers. Somewhere in central Arkansas, dozens of Tyson Chicken employees just got laid off because I ate EVERY FREAKING CHICKEN in their farm. Sigh.

And I've spent a lot of time wondering what it takes to be brave enough to do all this. To just go and move your body and eat the right foods no matter how many chocolate cakes are shoved under your nose or how many time your brain says that the world doesn't need another obese person waddling down the sidewalk in sweatpants. I went from actually being sort of brave and hopping on an airplane for Chicago at the last minute to hiding in my bedroom because a picture taken of me standing on the beach at Lake Michigan finally revealed to me just how bad things had gotten. There were no artfully posed "Fat-girl-with-chin-down-quirky-smile-to-hide-the-jowls" shots, no pageant position standing to minimize the waist and obscure at least one hip from the lens, no black on black couture to hopefully detract from the rolls and the pudge...just me in my pear-shaped glory, squinting at the camera and trying desperately to shield myself from sight with my forearms. And if I were serious about any of this, my blogs should've revealed a steady progression of good choices and moderate weight loss every week since January. Now I just have fits and starts and big gaps in the entries where I became an utter fuckup and ate away my disappointments and washed it down with a large Coke.

I wonder what it takes to be THAT person...the one who swims and dances and does yoga in a big-lady Speedo and XXL workout pants and doesn't apologize for wanting to do any of it. The one who says the Curves gym is okay if you want to not do very much, but that I have a right to be in the real gym with the real people, so move over so I can leg press thank you very much. The one who jiggles her way around a few miles of town every morning, no matter what, until the jiggles stop jiggling and the flesh is replaced by muscle and suddenly no one is staring or laughing as she steps into the pool. Where does the self-possession to say "I don't give a fuck" come from, or does it never actually click until you've earned the right in the eyes of everyone else?

I wish I knew...I'd like to instill myself with at least a modicum of bravery and integrity before I end up threatening the entire poultry population of the Central Plains.