I don’t feel like writing. I don’t feel like talking. I’m grumpy and pissed, mostly at myself. For a long time, I’ve been needing to get motivated about my weight. I walk for a few days and then I slack off. I try to eat less or better and then I slack off. I can’t look myself in the eyes in the mirror anymore. I know the consequences and yet I continue to act as if they don’t exist.
And it’s not like I haven’t been here before. It’s not like I haven’t been through this over and over. I’ve been struggling with my weight since my freshman year of college. That’s a long time ago. I’ve put it on and gotten it off several times, but each time is a little bit more and a little bit harder.
2 years ago I stopped drinking soda, in an attempt, specifically, to lose weight. I had read and heard that drinking a can of soda a day was the equivalent of 20 pounds a year. I thought maybe if I stopped drinking soda, I could lose…well, probably not 20 pounds, but maybe…something? Instead I started putting on weight. And on and on and up it went.
I overcompensated for the missing soda (not even sugar! I drank Pepsi Max!) with…well, with EVERYTHING, and more of it. I weigh more now than I ever have, even when I was pregnant.
I hate talking about my weight. I hate talking about dieting. I hate how it all takes over your whole life.
But.
This past Monday I went to a follow-up appointment with a new doctor. And got a diagnosis that I was simultaneously expecting and dreading: diabetes.
My dad died from diabetes. He was only 5 years older than I am now (though he was diagnosed in his early 40s and did everything possible to make it worse).
I am right over the borderline as far as my diagnosis goes, right at the bottom end of the diabetes scale. But once you are diagnosed as a diabetic, you are ALWAYS a diabetic.
I KNOW all about it. I know everything you could possibly tell me. I know. I know. I know. And yet, obviously, some part of me didn’t know enough. There are lots more options for treatment now than what my dad had 30 years ago, but still the best one is: eat less, eat right, exercise.
So yeah. That was the kick in the pants I wish I could have gotten in some other way. I joined Weightwatchers again the very same evening. It’s not been a week and I am hungry all the time, no matter how much I eat at mealtimes. All those things that are supposed to fill you up? They don’t fill me up. I remember this feeling from the last time I was on Weightwatchers.
But.
No more excuses. No more time. No more waiting for whatever it is I was waiting for to get motivated. Time’s up.