Once upon a time, I was fat. It was 2010 when I hit my highest weight of 200 pounds. For a woman measuring only 5’4″, that put me into the obese range.
Once upon a time, I lost a lot of weight. At my lowest since 2010, I weighed in at a very healthy 147 pounds. Come to think of it, I was around that weight in March of 2012 when my husband and I eloped.
I’d always thought that losing the weight would be the hardest thing I’d ever done, but that was until I did it. It was hard to start, no question, but when I was in it, it became easy. Like butter. The weight came off a pound or two a week–the healthy way. Steady. I loaded up on veggies and took up running and it was actually fun. I splurged on glasses of wine or sweet treats here and there but I kept doing it because it worked.
And it felt easy once the ball was rolling, like how a slinky just walks down the stairs on its own after you get it started.
I can tell you, that was not the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
That prize goes to the two years I’ve lived since being able to celebrate a 50 pound weight loss. When I was getting to my highest weight (which was happening in college and after graduation), I felt helpless to stop the incessant nudge of the scale upwards and I never thought that I’d feel that way again when I started seeing the scale go down.
In 2012, after I achieved 147 pounds, I held there for a little while, and fluctuated, but never more than five pounds up. I had gained a confidence through weight loss and through visiting a counselor that I don’t think I’d ever had before and I was able to keep moving ahead without much of a slip up.
The scale began to nudge up, if I’m honest, after my break-up with my counselor. She was no longer covered under my insurance and I couldn’t afford to see her anymore. This wasn’t a happy departing on my end and I languished over it, and still do sometimes, because she was wonderful. I was very reluctant to leave the security of her office because in some way, I was also leaving part of me, the stronger woman she helped me to become.
The valuable lessons she taught me about caring for myself in meaningful way slipped. I had relied on her as an outlet for my thoughts and emotions but that was removed. Tough emotions usually make us turn to the things we know and for me, that was food.
The scale was slow to move up, and I would see it and move it back down. This happened a few times in rather small increments. Up five. Back down three. Up three. Back down two. But the ups were always just a little bit bigger than the downs.
And this winter, when I stopped running due to the weather, the downs stopped altogether. And I’m up to a weight that I last saw on my decent in 2011, just about exactly three years ago.
This may not seem horrible but it feels like an important dividing line.
If I’m less than 166, I can fit rather comfortably into a size 10 with no frets. But now I’m truly a size 12 and that’s a problem because I no longer own anything in size 12. I got rid of all my too-big sizes three years ago when I was losing and I vowed not to go back up. I refused to buy a size bigger than a 10.
And now I’m at a crossroads: lose weight or buy a bigger size.
I need to get over this emotional hump and find a place where I’m happy being me again. I need to find a way to feel comfortable in my body again. And I need to fall in love with salads and running again.
If only this wasn’t the hardest thing to do.