Stranger.

It helps to know that I'm not unique in what I'm doing, here.  There are plenty of people struggling to reclaim their health and bodies after years of obesity.  For me, I count it in decades.  I hate thinking of it in that long of a times span, but fact is fact.

Personally, aside from this blog, an fb status here and there, and the odd progress shot on the 'gram,  I'm extremely reluctant to share my experience.  It's not a conscious decision, it's fear.

Fear, fear, fear.

Anyone who's been stuck in the rabbit hole can tell you that fear is an every day thing.  Fear of insult.  Fear of injury.  Fear of failure.  Fear of judgment.  Fear of scorn.  Fear of death. Fear of relapse.  The list goes on.  And it doesn't just evaporate into nothing the minute you start to make a change.  For me, it got even worse.

Gym anxiety is still a thing with me.  Even though I know everyone in there has their own shit to think about.  That dude deadlifting 4,000lbs with one hand obviously has something else to focus on, rather than how many squats I'm doing on the TRX thing.  That girl running on the treadmill, so fast that I'm pretty sure she's about to be airborne, totally gives no shits about what I'm doing on the leg press.  Buddy doing his crazy monkey bar thing on the big machine has no vested interest in how much time I'm spending on the bike.  Eventually, I get over myself and rack up another work out on the books.

But the fear gets in your head in every day life, too.  And I'm not just talking weight loss, here, buds.  No matter how the change is happening, when you move to put distance between yourself and something that has consumed your life or personality for a long time, you start to wonder about the stranger you're becoming to yourself.

Things will be different.  You will feel different, you will look different, and you will be living your life in a different way.  Something that ate your time, effort, money and life is becoming a memory.  What will be the result? This has been the status quo for so long, even when you knew it would probably not end well. It was life as you knew it, it was your identity. Will you even know yourself anymore?

Think about that question:  will you even know yourself anymore?

This is pretty deep shit, right here.  Your identity tied to the 5 ton anchor of bad shit, dragging you under the surface. Emotional trauma, self hate, crushing depression, whatever your deal was.  Did you know yourself then?  Or really, do you want to hold on to that part of you?

I fucking don't.  I don't want to be buds with the version of me that lived in the Taco Bell drive-thru. I don't want to hang out with the version of me that ate pizza every day for 4 months straight after I informally dropped out of college.  I don't want to commiserate with the horribly depressed me that had an expensive relationship with the debit on delivery pizza fairy, and  I definitely don't want to babysit the pre-adolescent version of me that stole food and hid it (in the most idiotic way) when I wasn't stuffing it in my mouth before anyone caught me.

Those versions of me are gone.  Outgrown, if you want to get ironic.  All of that behaviour got me to a place that could have very well killed me.  And I did it to myself.  I'll be 40 years old in 5 days.  Sometimes I think it's a miracle that I made it this far, considering the punishment my body and brain have taken.  And those versions of myself are responsible for it all.  No one strapped dynamite to me and told me to eat the way I did.  No one held a knife to my throat.  NO ONE.  Just me.  Sad, lonely, confused, bored and broken me.

But the ties that bind made me question the next version of me, the "me in progress".  Who's that stranger appearing in the mirror?  Will that stranger be the same person?  Will I lose my creativity?  My sense of humor?  

No.  Because I'll let you in on a little secret:  your brain and deepest being will not melt away.  All of those other versions of you are a memory.  They've been weeded out because they're not who you truly are.  Me?  I'm know that I'm not a miserable bitchrag at my deepest core.  I laugh too much for that.  I know I'm not unloveable.  I know that I'm completely capable of being an alright, happy person.  External forces may try to prove otherwise, but I know me.

When we turn our backs on the vices that drag us down, we make the choice to walk towards something better.  I don't care if it's food, drugs, booze, whatever.  When we put down the bad shit and commit to making a positive change, the future self takes over.  We are made stronger by....wait for it....hope.  It sounds so fucking corny, but it's true.

The journey I'm on, and the progress I see gives me hope, and it helps to conquer some of the fear.  The fact that, despite any muscle-head anxiety, I still lace up my shoes and get to work gives me hope.  When I step on the scale once a week and see less than awesome results, it may piss me off, but at the same time it drives me to keep fucking going.  Despite the fact that it feels like it's taking forever, it's worth the effort.

I know that keeping my head in the game is vital.  I want to finally get to the healthy weight and shape I haven't seen in well over 20 years.  I want to change for the better. I am willing to do the work, finally.

Yes, there's a familiar stranger in the mirror.  There's a strange vulnerability to it, but I don't mind.  I'm still learning how to do this, but I'm totally into it.  I am slowly getting to know that stranger, and so far, she seems pretty alright.  

Peace out for now, and keep going.  You're totally worth the good that's coming your way.

xo

lb

We always have what we deserve.

With this new adventure I'm on (and I'm still on it!), I think about what I'm doing. A lot.  It's probably what I think about most in a day.  But it's not an obsession, as far as I'm concerned.

This is my life, and my health. It's something only I can do for myself.  I can't outsource it, and I can't attribute success or blame to anyone but me.  This is work, it's a full time job on top of everything else I do in a day.  It involves my brain and body to a degree I never before understood.

After having an incredibly lazy Saturday, I decided to get off my ass and at least have a shower so that the day couldn't be deemed a total write off.  I was thinking about what I'm doing and the purpose of my commitment. Pretty heavy thoughts for such a quick shower.

Of course, years of advertising slogans and marketing bullshit came to mind.  Television was always the best babysitter for me, and given today's complete couch-based slug fest, it still is.

I always found it strange when a big selling point was "get the body you DESERVE!".  Guess what, marketing dicks, I've always had the body I deserved.

For years, I only moved when I had to over the course of a day. The daily drill went something like this: Stay in bed as long as I can, get up, go to work at my desk job, sit in my car on the drive home, make some lazy food (if I didn't go through the drive thru), fall asleep on the couch, eventually drag my ass to bed, then do it all again the next day.   No exercise, not a whole lot of positive thoughts, nothing to write home about.  The days would just slip away, lather-rinse-repeat.

I'm happy that I've been able to shift my brain into a better gear.  Going to the gym and taking the leap of faith that is working with a personal trainer is paying off HUGE.  My depression has lifted and the weight is coming off.  So far, I'm 26lbs down, and have shed over 23 inches.  Back in January, I had the ankle fusion hardware removed, which has helped greatly.

Each day I put in the work, I know I get the results I want, both mentally and physically.  I fell out of routine a bit after my surgery and sure enough, progress slowed right fucking down.  I had to get annoyed enough to jump back in, and that's exactly what I did.

I still have at least another year before I hit my ultimate goal.  Believe me, that's fine.  We all know that there's no quick fixes when it comes to weight loss.  Everything has a price, and I have chosen to pay that price in sweat and hard work.  Could I work even harder? Sure. Definitely.  But right now, it's about balance for me.  

There's so much to research and learn.  Food, nutrition, exercise, all of it.  I'm learning more right now than I have in years.  I love it.  What I love even more, is that it's sticking to my brain.  That's super important.

Right now, I deserve to learn and explore.  I deserve to spend the time helping myself get to a better place.  I deserve to reap the benefits of my own efforts, and I deserve the challenge of pushing it further.

I deserve all of those things, and only I can provide them.  No one else can, no fucking way.

xo
lb

Get up.

Sometimes life makes it way too easy to give up on something like this.  It throws you a curve ball, and erring on the side of caution is the easiest way to give up without admitting outright that you're doing just that.  Mind you, that's not the case in ALL situations, but man, it can make it easy.

Today, it would have been easy to sit back and let another day go by without going to the gym.  I'm pleased to say that hasn't been the case too often these days, but today would have been understandable (read: easy).

About 2 or so years ago, my left knee started to click.  Not just the odd click here and there, it's an audible snap every time I take a step. It's to the point where it's referred to as "the bell around my neck" because it's so loud, it's impossible to creep up on anyone. Lucky me, I get to hear it on both the outside AND the inside.  Plainly put: it's fucking gross.

I was referred to a new orthopedic surgeon while I still lived in London, and since it didn't hurt, he decided not to do anything about it for the time being.  This was after 6+ months of physiotherapy (my poor PT, she was totally stumped), of course.

Then, earlier this year, it started to hurt.  Not only was there pain, the repetitive snap grew louder and louder.  In April, I made the trip down to London to talk to my GP about it, and I was referred a new orthopedic surgeon closer to where I now live, and I was told to get a new set of Xrays so that the new doctor could compare them with the ones I had taken previously.

That was fine and dandy, except for one thing:  The new xrays came back completely clean.  None of the bi-compartmental osteoarthritis that had been there a year earlier, none of the patello-femoral issues.  Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

My GP scratched her head and basically said "what the hell is up with THAT?!?", and I was immediately referred for an MRI to get to the bottom of things.  4 months later, I had the MRI and today I got the result.

There is, in fact, something wrong with my knee.  More than one thing, actually. Now it's tri-compartmental osteoarthritis, with a torn ACL thrown in for good measure. I feel less crazy, now.  I feel less stupid and worried that I was imagining everything.  I feel almost vindicated.

Now, the next wait will be to see a new orthopedic surgeon.  The dude I was referred to back in April still hasn't even booked my appointment.  Seriously.  Over 5 months to even get booked in?  Get over yourself, asshole.  I hope they can find me someone else, because I don't want to drag this out any longer than extremely necessary.

Even with all of this craziness today, even with a head and chest cold, I still went to the gym.  As I did, sick as a dog, on Friday and Saturday night. 

My point is: no matter what, get up.  Life's knocking the shit out of you?  Get up. GET. UP.   It's worth it.  You're worth it.  Just, get up.  Even when the easiest thing would be to lay down, get up. 

Trust me.

XO
LB

It was August, and I crushed it.

Yes, I am here! And the battle rages on!

I made it to the gym 4 times last week, and this week I received my first round of circuit training from my super awesome trainer.  It nearly killed me when I went through it the first night (3 times, I thought I might die toward the end), which did not really surprise me.  I'm a stranger in a strange land, and my legs were protesting the whole way through.

I noticed something as we worked in front of the huge mirror for part of it.  Through those parts of it, confronted with what I was seeing, my eyes were automatically looking toward the ceiling or the floor.  I wouldn't look at myself.

Really, it felt so silly, I was totally aware that I was avoiding myself.  Even if I did take a glance, it was not at my face.  I wouldn't look myself in the eye.  After I was finished, I tried to rationalize it to myself, but I honestly couldn't. I did look at my legs, my gut, my feet (my shoes are very hard to ignore, after all, they're bright pink).  But looking myself in the eye was pretty much impossible.

Maybe it went with the old idea that we're our own worst enemies, but even that doesn't really explain it.  Would I laugh at myself?  Would I point and criticize myself?  Not in any serious way. The root cause is a mystery to me, and I know it will probably happen again.  But it really doesn't matter because as long as I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing, it's alright.

My attendance at the gym hasn't been as great this week, but that's a scheduling thing.  I've actually been missing it, and I was pretty stoked that my trainer thinks the amount of cardio I do is "insanely impressive".  What?!? FOR REALS?!?  Well then, I shall carry on being awesome.

I have started keeping track of my trips over to the gym.  Big, black check marks of achievement. At the end of each month, I'll take a photo of what I have achieved.  Here's what August looked like (taking into consideration that the newest era of this war started on August 18th), I'm pretty proud of it:

Not too shabby for a beginner, as far as I'm concerned.  

Onward, always onward.

xo
LB

The Confusing Realm of Actually Doing.

It's a strange feeling, i must admit. It has been over 20 years since I was at my healthy weight. Over 2 decades. It's really no surprise that I have no recollection of how it feels. So much has happened since then, it's almost like that feeling has been overwritten. Completely taped over.

Right now, I'm sitting here at my boyfriend's band practice, kicked back in a recliner while operating the 6 track recorder. I can feel all my excess weight, and I can see a good portion of it. It's no longer upsetting, I know it's there. but now, I know I'm actually doing something about it. I made it to the gym 4 times this week. I'm pretty fucking proud of that.

What I find interesting is that I don't know what to expect as I lose this fat and slowly change shape. I try to think of what clothes I'll finally be able to wear. What it will feel like without my big gut. What it will feel like to be strong. It's all a huge mystery. But, even with that mystery, it's exciting as hell.

Yes, I am aware that it's going to take years. I don't really care about that, though. It's just nice to know that positive change is happening, and it's proving to be an integral tool in keeping the depression at bay.

I'm focused. I'm doin' it. I got this.

xo

LB

The Year of Getting Rad

Time just seems to slip away, over and over again.  Important things fall by the wayside, priorities change and, eventually, all feels as though it is lost.

Until today, all really did feel lost.  Maybe not permanently lost, but it felt so far away and impossible, I had no idea how I would get back on the horse I had put out to pasture months ago.

Something personal took me down below the surface, and for months all I have been able to do is work and sleep to keep my brain from melting to nothing.  I'm not fuckin' around here, it has been one of those personal journeys that can make or break your spirit, and your perspective on what you think you know. The blackest of black dogs crept in and, before I knew it, wrapped me in its loving arms of laziness and depression. Any energy or drive I had built up was completely done for.  I was well and truly down the well.

For the last 2 weeks, I have been on vacation.  Nothing glamourous, nothing beachy, just farting around at home with the odd road trip here and there.  Knowing what I've been trudging through for the past few months, I decided to take my time and come up with a plan of attack in terms of renewing my commitment to ditching this goddamn lard once and for all.  No gung-ho, gangbusters, rah rah rah "let's DO this!".  It was time for careful, strategic planning.  Conscious and mindful.  Rock. Fucking. Steady.

It was also time to admit that I can't be trusted to do it by myself.  I've said it every time I went back to Fat Camp, and it applies here, too.  I need the leash.  I need to be accountable to someone else for my actions or inaction.  I need adult supervision.

Today, I embarked on what will be one of the most important years of my life.  Today kicked off my year of getting rad.  With my gym membership came some complimentary sessions with a personal trainer, and I went for one of those sessions today.  I fessed up and said I was bored and have completely lost my way.  I explained everything and she totally understood where I was coming from.  Then, she said she is committed to kicking my ass.

I've never been happier to have someone say that it is their mission to kick my fucking ass.  In the next year, I will see what see just how much I can do to transform myself.  Food, exercise, the whole shootin' match. I refuse to put a specific number on it because if I did, I would be instantly doomed to failure.  All I want is to see just how far I can push myself and how that work will change my physical state. 

After all the bullshit I've been going through, it's time to focus on me and remember what it's like to be selfish in one of the best possible ways.  It's time to pay attention and wake up. 

And so, it begins.  Journey to the Centre of the Radical.  I will be back to more frequent posts, rambling on about all this, so stay tuned.  Let's see what happens, shall we?

xo
LB

What's the problem?

Indeed, what IS the problem?  Actually, I don't know if "problem" is the term that I would really use.  More of an issue, a hiccup, a hitch in the giddyup, so to speak.

Really, it's nothing new.  Ask anybody who has gone back and forth in this process and they'll tell you the same thing.  You get going, all gung-ho, and once the initial fever cools down and things become routine, something falls to the wayside a little bit.

I should clarify that I'm not pouting because I fell of the wagon or anything.  I'm still working on ditching the lard, and doing pretty well I might add, but 2 things slowed down this week.  One through no fault of my own, the other was on me completely.

First casualty:  the gym.  Not one trip to the gym this week.  Not even close.  It wasn't for lack of wanting to keep on with what I'm doing, that I can say to my credit.  After the show last Saturday (my band played for the last time, it was a great good-bye), I got totally taken down by the cold that everyone and their brother seems to have.  I am still suffering the end of it, but at least it's getting better.  It has been a brutal week, though, a brutal, snotty week in which my voice temporarily dropped 3 octaves before I lost it altogether. Now that "The Crud" is on the run, I am solidly committed to a goal of at least 3 morning visits to the gym to get back to where I was before.  It has to happen. Absolutely.

Second casualty:  this is where I totally eat shit and hold myself responsible.  Tracking. Actually, a distinct lack thereof.  How my brain works is a complete and total mystery to me most of the time, and my brain made the weird decision to go rogue and decide that tracking didn't need to be done.  My lazy fucking brain. The fact that I put my book away has made it truly out of sight and out of mind.  How can my brain, which is usually pretty dependable, be so easily fooled?  For real!

As of two minutes ago, my tracker has been put back into plain sight, right beside the pen (I can't afford to let my brain get away with that trickery again, all tools need to remain in plain sight from now on). 

I'm glad that these two trip ups are so minor in nature (in my opinion), and it didn't lead me to fucking shoot the works and launch into a magnificent spiral of bad habits and self pity.  I've done that a million times, I'm pretty much a pro at it by now.  Nope, I kept myself aware, haven't missed a weigh-in, and I'm really not beating myself up too badly about it.  I can't help that I got sick, the overtime at work has to happen, and I've given myself a stern talking to about the tracking.

Issues identified, corrections are in progress.

In addition to the issue resolutions, I'm throwing myself back into research and digging further for motivation.  I've got an excellent support network with various levels of experience and empathy/identification.  I'm a lucky girl in that respect.  

And then, there's this blog.  I realize that not a lot of people read it anymore (if anyone does at all), but I've decided to keep it going.  Mostly, it's for selfish reasons:  the main selfish reason is that the writing helps my weight loss.  I could talk about my various experience until the cows come home, but eventually eyes start to glaze over and the conversation trickles off to another subject.  Here, I'm just saying everything I need to say, and whether or not anyone reads it doesn't concern me.  If someone stumbles across it and finds it useful or helpful, that's a total bonus.

Alright, on with Sunday.  One last day of rest to heal up this cold, and then it's back to business tomorrow morning.

xo
lb