6:00am. Alarm goes off. "What if I can't do it today?"
6:30am. After a cold brew coffee, my shoe laces are tied and we're heading out the door. Water bottle and bug spray in tow. "What if I feel embarrassed today? I hope there's no one there. Please let there be no one there." I sheepishly clasp my hands together in prayer and do a hail Mary.
6:40am. It seems like there are more people than usual. I blush from embarrassment.
6:43am. "Why did I drink so much this weekend?" I already feel slow.
6:45am. Five minute warm up walk. I make an attempt to enjoy the morning. My brain ends up spiraling into what mind over matter means and I decide it's a bunch of bullshit. I miss the morning's beauty again.
6:50am. C25K app dings and says the words I've been dreading. Begin running.
6:55am. It's only been 5 minutes and I'm already out of breath. "How am I going to make it? There's no way I'm going to make it."
7:00am. Two songs have played. If I've done the math correctly, I need to run through six and a half. My shins hurt, my pace is slow and I'm struggling to catch my breath. "This is torture. Is this ever going to be easy for me?"
7:02am. The familiar "ding." You are halfway there. "Only halfway? Go to hell, weird lady in my app."
7:02andahalf am. The third song is just now starting. "Why the fuck is Monster Mash on my running playlist?" I try to "zone out." I do not know what it means when a runner "zones out." I'm very aware of the extra 90 pounds I'm trying to run with. I decide zoning out is for skinny people.
7:05am. A large group of thin, tan, and healthy teenage girls run past me three times my speed, effortlessly. "Oh, fuck you." The stares make my stomach turn, and I'm ashamed and angry. The last of my confidence (which now is the size of a mustard seed) is squashed. I start to walk
7:08am. "What the fuck are you doing? Am I really just quitting? God dammit, Erica." My legs still won't run. I don't really know why but the fact that my calves feel like tree trunks is a good indicator.
7:09am. I only have six minutes left. I start running again. I can't feel my legs anymore and I want to cry. I can't believe I let myself walk for a minute. I wonder if it's ever going to start feeling good to go for a run. I get angry at fit people for running like it's a goddamn fucking hobby.
7:10am. I'm looking at the stopwatch every minute. It's torture. I want to stop, but I don't.
7:11am. "How is this entire fucking trail uphill? Is that even physically possible?"
7:12am. A couple walking next to each other coming the opposite direction. They're taking up the entire trail. Both staring at me struggling. Neither one moves to the left and I'm forced off the trail. I'm so angry, I flip them off with both fingers. "I'm 245 pounds, I'm sweating buckets, I'm clearly struggling with what I'm doing. I'm not trying to have a fucking face off with you. So move."
7:12am. Time is moving at glacial speeds. I'm mad at those teenage girls. I'm mad at that stupid couple. I'm mad at time itself. I'm mad at this stupid song on my playlist. I'm mad at my legs. I'm mad at the ground. I'm mad at myself.
7:12am. "Did time just stop? Is the world just fucking with me now?"
7:12am. "Yeah, it's fucking with me now.
7:13am. "I don't think I'm going to make it."
7:14am. "I don't think I'm going to make it."
7:15am. Ding. Your run is complete, start your cool down now.
Tuesday, July 21, 2015
Friday, July 10, 2015
honey to the soul.
I woke up this morning at 6am sharp, as I have done almost every weekday morning for five weeks. It hurts to get up that early. My right eye is about twenty minutes behind as I shuffle around my apartment getting ready. I want to go back to bed, but I drink a cold brew coffee instead and slip on my running shorts. Once my right eye is finally open, I notice how cool the air is outside, even in the dead of summer. The sun just rose and the last bits of pinks and orange liter the sky. It's quiet, except for the songs of house sparrows on the sidewalk. Angie and I leave the apartment, and I feel the familiar nervousness start to seep in my bones.
What if I fail.
My stomach starts to ache. It's one thing to be the Fat Girl running. It's another thing to be the Fat Girl who tried to run and couldn't, in public, for everyone to witness. Today is the last day of week five in the Couch to 5K program. Day two was 8 minute intervals. Today is running 20 minutes straight. I'm afraid I can't do it. I give myself a pep talk. "I will try my best. I know what my best is by now. I will run as far as I can. If I stop before the twenty minutes is up, I will not beat myself up. I will not consider it a fail because I will try again and again until I can do it."
As I start to grasp my health, I've grappled with the idea of failure. I see fitness blogs or Pinterest posts often with phrases like, "failure is not an option." Let me tell you something, failure is absolutely an option. Not only that, but when you're a 250 pound person who's trying to shed 100 pounds by her wedding next year, it will absolutely, without a doubt, fucking happen. I understand now, though, that true failure is when you fail the first time, and never try again. I did that a lot when I first started because I listened to the voice in my head that told me I was a gross, fat, loser who was never going to be a runner. I would laugh at myself, "get a load of this asshole, this 250 pound lady thinks she's going to run." I would get sad. I would eat a bunch of cheez its, I would drink a bunch of beer. I quit. That kind of failure hurts everywhere. It wasn't until I saw a YouTube video about a 500 pound man talk about learning to accept himself that it all clicked.
Though sometimes deceivingly helpful on the outside, the anti-fat movement in this country is damaging. It feeds the monsters that live in fat people's minds that says, "you aren't good enough. You are disgusting. You don't deserve to feel good. You don't deserve anything good." Do you know what the least helpful thing is when trying to accomplish a goal? Particularly weight loss? That goddamn negative self talk. It's ironic that people who hate fat people so much do the very thing that keeps fat people fat. When the man in the video started explaining that, it totally clicked for me. I formally tried to use negative self talk as motivation. "Get up off the bed, you fat fuck. You are useless. Get up and run, you lazy piece of shit." I don't have to say that it doesn't work. That same talk would come creeping back when I did fail, and keep me in the state of failure. "You really are useless. Just give up, you don't deserve it. Go get drunk and forget about all of this. Nothing matters, you're disgusting." Do you see why that shit doesn't work?
So, I will love myself through this process, instead. I will talk kindly to myself, "look what your body has done and will do! You are beautiful. I'm excited to see you sharpening your sword! You deserve to feel good today, how about a run?" I will love myself enough to give myself nourishing foods. To strengthen my body and my mind. I will run. Hike. Identify birds. Laugh uproariously. Be unashamed to refer to myself as "fucking awesome." To call a therapist. I will because I love myself, and I want myself to feel better. I will because I deserve to have a full life. I deserve to find beauty again. Though, I don't mean to say that like it's easy. It's not. I still hate looking in the mirror, and often avoid mirrors and any other reflective pieces of glass at great lengths. I don't talk kindly to myself naturally. I have to purposely choose to do it, and it often feels contrived and ridiculous. But, like I said earlier the only true failure is giving up. So, even though it hurts, and I tend to do it with one eye open, I will choose to love myself.
This morning, I woke up at 6am. The air was painted blue and orange, and I quietly sipped my coffee trying not to be grumpy. My stomach sank heavy with worry that I was going to fail. I chose to be kind to myself, and asked that if I didn't make it the full 20 minutes that I would speak only honey to my soul. I wouldn't come undone. I wouldn't quit.
This morning, I woke up at 6am and traveled to the Metropark. I put my headphones in, with the intentions of trying my best. I ran the full 20 minutes, without stopping. The longest I have run since freshman year of high school. I feel proud.
Oh yeah, here's that video. I never thought a white man would say the words that helped shift my views and ultimately change my life, but he did so thanks, dude!
What if I fail.
My stomach starts to ache. It's one thing to be the Fat Girl running. It's another thing to be the Fat Girl who tried to run and couldn't, in public, for everyone to witness. Today is the last day of week five in the Couch to 5K program. Day two was 8 minute intervals. Today is running 20 minutes straight. I'm afraid I can't do it. I give myself a pep talk. "I will try my best. I know what my best is by now. I will run as far as I can. If I stop before the twenty minutes is up, I will not beat myself up. I will not consider it a fail because I will try again and again until I can do it."
As I start to grasp my health, I've grappled with the idea of failure. I see fitness blogs or Pinterest posts often with phrases like, "failure is not an option." Let me tell you something, failure is absolutely an option. Not only that, but when you're a 250 pound person who's trying to shed 100 pounds by her wedding next year, it will absolutely, without a doubt, fucking happen. I understand now, though, that true failure is when you fail the first time, and never try again. I did that a lot when I first started because I listened to the voice in my head that told me I was a gross, fat, loser who was never going to be a runner. I would laugh at myself, "get a load of this asshole, this 250 pound lady thinks she's going to run." I would get sad. I would eat a bunch of cheez its, I would drink a bunch of beer. I quit. That kind of failure hurts everywhere. It wasn't until I saw a YouTube video about a 500 pound man talk about learning to accept himself that it all clicked.
Though sometimes deceivingly helpful on the outside, the anti-fat movement in this country is damaging. It feeds the monsters that live in fat people's minds that says, "you aren't good enough. You are disgusting. You don't deserve to feel good. You don't deserve anything good." Do you know what the least helpful thing is when trying to accomplish a goal? Particularly weight loss? That goddamn negative self talk. It's ironic that people who hate fat people so much do the very thing that keeps fat people fat. When the man in the video started explaining that, it totally clicked for me. I formally tried to use negative self talk as motivation. "Get up off the bed, you fat fuck. You are useless. Get up and run, you lazy piece of shit." I don't have to say that it doesn't work. That same talk would come creeping back when I did fail, and keep me in the state of failure. "You really are useless. Just give up, you don't deserve it. Go get drunk and forget about all of this. Nothing matters, you're disgusting." Do you see why that shit doesn't work?
So, I will love myself through this process, instead. I will talk kindly to myself, "look what your body has done and will do! You are beautiful. I'm excited to see you sharpening your sword! You deserve to feel good today, how about a run?" I will love myself enough to give myself nourishing foods. To strengthen my body and my mind. I will run. Hike. Identify birds. Laugh uproariously. Be unashamed to refer to myself as "fucking awesome." To call a therapist. I will because I love myself, and I want myself to feel better. I will because I deserve to have a full life. I deserve to find beauty again. Though, I don't mean to say that like it's easy. It's not. I still hate looking in the mirror, and often avoid mirrors and any other reflective pieces of glass at great lengths. I don't talk kindly to myself naturally. I have to purposely choose to do it, and it often feels contrived and ridiculous. But, like I said earlier the only true failure is giving up. So, even though it hurts, and I tend to do it with one eye open, I will choose to love myself.
This morning, I woke up at 6am. The air was painted blue and orange, and I quietly sipped my coffee trying not to be grumpy. My stomach sank heavy with worry that I was going to fail. I chose to be kind to myself, and asked that if I didn't make it the full 20 minutes that I would speak only honey to my soul. I wouldn't come undone. I wouldn't quit.
This morning, I woke up at 6am and traveled to the Metropark. I put my headphones in, with the intentions of trying my best. I ran the full 20 minutes, without stopping. The longest I have run since freshman year of high school. I feel proud.
Oh yeah, here's that video. I never thought a white man would say the words that helped shift my views and ultimately change my life, but he did so thanks, dude!
Thursday, July 9, 2015
the End, the Beginning.
My first few years in college were what I considered to be the best of my life. I was active, I traveled, I partied, I had a lot of friends. I've struggled with depressive episodes my whole life but was generally happy and was enjoying all the activities I participated in. I was fun. Funny. Carefree. I climbed roofs, danced in bars, went streaking. I went on a three month camping trip where I visited thirty some national parks in thirty some different states. I climbed mountains, I slept under the stars, I drank cowboy coffee for breakfast. I visited bustling, colorful, overwhelming Mumbai, India... not once, but twice. I talked to people. I heard and told stories. I was engaged with the world around me. I was desperate for learning about the world around me and thirsty for spiritual discovery.
But I still kept a secret. I don't know why, but I was still scared to tell anyone I was gay. Luckily, during this time, I didn't have much of an interest in dating--- I loved myself enough and enjoyed my independence. So, I quietly tucked it away and told myself, "I'll worry about this later."
That was until 2010 when I met two elders from a college Christian ministry. They seemed like a couple of really incredibly human beings and eventually offered to let me live with them over the summer so I could stay in my college town of Bowling Green. They accepted me into their family, cooked me meals, prayed for me, laughed with me, and (most of all) encouraged me and built me up beyond skyscrapers. I was up to my ears in this pure, sparkling, white love. Of course I wanted to be a Christian, this was amazing. I was completely overwhelmed and dazzled by the whole thing that I was blinded to that fact that some of the teachings of this church went exactly against everything I ever believed in. Mostly, that little aforementioned secret. But I pressed on anyway. I went to church. I sang worship songs. I read the bible. I prayed. I went to freaking bible study. I was immersed in this seemingly perfect community.
After the initial novelty of it all wore off, it really fucked with me.
When you live for three years believing that you either have to somehow change or hide who you really are, or otherwise lose this amazing community and face an eternity of pain beyond human grasp, anxiety and depression take hold fast. I was a mess. I over compensated for my secret by trying to date boys. It didn't work. I prayed every morning, afternoon, and night for my desires to go away. They didn't. I tried to personally commit my life to one of singleness, and that just made me hella depressed. Quickly, I was realizing that in order to stay in this community I loved so dearly, I was sacrificing a huge part of myself. The part of my human core that wants to love, and be loved, and fuck, and date, and mobilize with the LGBT community had to be shoved away. I made a mistake.
I started drinking heavily to self medicate. I lived most of my life completely hungover waiting for 5PM to roll around so I could crack open another tall boy. I couldn't find God anywhere. I was terrified of going to hell for something I felt like I couldn't control. I isolated myself from most of my friends because I was afraid of how they would react (and with good reason). When I finally couldn't take it anymore, I was totally boiling over when I came out of the closet. I didn't execute it well, but I stated the facts, and I put it out there. I am gay. I like women. I want to date women. I want to marry one. There was a small part of me that hoped my Christian community would still accept me like they had before, still love me. Still keep me safe in the amoeba. Some did. Most didn't.
Slowly, old friends stopped talking to me and stopped trying to hang out. When I would see them in public, conversation was awkward and rushed. I know they were trying but there was a twinge of pain that came from knowing they thought my sexuality was a sin against God. The couple I mentioned earlier, who took me in and loved me like family, started to lose interest in me. I wasn't invited over much, and their kids who called me "aunt Erica" did not have me as their babysitter anymore. She admitted that our friendship was going to change because I wasn't a follower of Jesus anymore. I started to really feel like I wasn't good enough. I wasn't pure enough. I didn't pray enough. I couldn't possibly love Jesus and love women at the same time. I was dirty. She assured me that she was willing to work on our friendship through this, but I really wasn't sure. It seemed like an ultimatum. Losing them seemed impossible, but not living the way I was born to live seemed impossible too. The cruel paradoxes in my life at the time became too much, eventually.
I went insane. And landed in a psychiatric unit in November of 2013.
When I got out, it was over. I received the dreaded message from the very person I felt was impossible to lose. "Dear Erica, I can no longer have any communication with you, or be in the same social circles." When I read that everything felt like it was underwater. I remember the ringing in my ears. I didn't know what to do. I had lost my family. I had lost my friends. I wasn't welcome at church or any church related groups or functions she was apart of. Since she was an elder, she single-handily used her power to totally excommunicate me. It hurt. I was pissed. I was sad. I wanted to hit something. Since then, I left Christianity all together. The taste it left in my mouth was least desirable.
I was devastated to the point of remiss. I was devastated so deeply, that for a few months I didn't feel a thing. I had a few friends left over from the train wreck (which now my gratefulness for them extends beyond the galaxy) but, I lost interest in everything. I was just sad. I hated my job. I never stopped drinking. I had sex with people I didn't know. I was trying to simultaneously ease the immense amount of pain I was in, while trying to feel something again, too. I lived like that for an entire year. The world that once was full of love and color and wind and rain and mountains and beauty... became bleak and grey. Everything had this evil tint to it. Even the things I once loved and held close to me. Even the once beloved oceans seemed to have this sinister twist to them. It was horrific.
Then I met Angie.
For the first time in a year, I was having fun with somebody. We laughed, we drank, we cooked meals together. We TRAVELED. We traveled. Did you guys fucking hear that we TRAVELED. I was suddenly inspired to be a better person. We fell in love. We got engaged. I cared about a person on a romantic level. I cared about something enough that I wanted to marry it. It was beautiful and terrifying and exciting. I really, critically, began look at myself. Who I had become. What I was about. What was left of me since the year I let life kick my ass. And I didn't like it one bit. When I actually looked in the mirror for the first time, I realized I had gained a lot of weight. 90 pounds to be exact. In a year.
Do you know what happens to your body when you gain 90 pounds in a year? Only horrible things. My feet hurt. My back hurt. I can't cross my legs. I can't do any of the things I once loved easily. Hiking is hard. Swimming is hard. My asthma got worse. I was tired all the time. I have difficulty tying my god damn fucking shoelaces. Tying my shoelaces now is like trying to fold a bowling ball in half. I am not the person I used to be. I used to jump around and dance and be able to hold high energy conversations. Now, I'm perpetually embarrassed and tired.
What happened to my body? I'll tell you what happened. I turned 23, my metabolism packed it's bags and moved the hell out. I let depression and self loathing completely take over in it's place. I ate gummy bears for breakfast. I put well over 2,000 calories of beer in my eating hole every night before I went to bed. If you want to gain 90 pounds in a year, I can tell you exactly how to do it. Just live exactly like that and you'll be all set.
I don't want to live like that anymore. I want some parts of old Erica back. I want to foster a space for new, better Erica to grow. Slowly, I walk out to the meadow where my tree bears fruit. I am choosing to water it, and give it sun, and tell her that I love her.
I have some goals to work on now. I've got 100 pounds altogether that I would like to get rid of, and from the aftermath of excommunication, a severe, relentless cruel anxiety that I never had before. (But, that's for a the next blog update.) I desire health now. Holistically. Earnestly. And I couldn't be more absolutely terrified. You don't know what terror is until you go out in public and become fat girl running. But I will do it anyway. I will run. I will eat well. I will work on my anxiety. I will not continue to take jobs that I'm over qualified for because it's easy. I will find myself again. It'll take a while, but I will. I have to.
So to both combat and embrace the fear, I am starting a blog about how I'm doing it. It will cover mostly the weight loss but, the mental health aspects as well. I want to invite you to cheer me on, pursue your own path, make fun of me behind my back, and/or talk to me about it to my face. I plan to talk about how hard my workout was that day, gripe about how I want to eat ONE MILLION FUCKING DONUTS RIGHT NOW, maybe sometimes post pictures of what I made myself to eat that was healthy and I was particularly proud of. Most of all, I will be endlessly exploring the deep oceans of what it means to love myself.
I am currently counting calories, watching what I eat, and running via the Couch to 5k program. I'm in my fifth week and have so far lost a total of 13 pounds (don't be fooled though, there was some serious on and off flaky shit before I really got it together). I'm working on getting in touch with a mental health professional for some counseling and medication (but don't be fooled again, calling a doctor is terrifying because what if I say something stupid! or what if the doctor is evil and is planning to perform illegal experiments on me! or what if I die and spend eternity in the hellish void of my own mind!) But, like I said, most of all I am making the choice to love myself. To be gentle to me. To speak kind words. To embrace. To let my soon-to-be-wife love me. And believe it.
This is the end. This is the beginning. And I am excited and petrified to share it with you all.
But I still kept a secret. I don't know why, but I was still scared to tell anyone I was gay. Luckily, during this time, I didn't have much of an interest in dating--- I loved myself enough and enjoyed my independence. So, I quietly tucked it away and told myself, "I'll worry about this later."
That was until 2010 when I met two elders from a college Christian ministry. They seemed like a couple of really incredibly human beings and eventually offered to let me live with them over the summer so I could stay in my college town of Bowling Green. They accepted me into their family, cooked me meals, prayed for me, laughed with me, and (most of all) encouraged me and built me up beyond skyscrapers. I was up to my ears in this pure, sparkling, white love. Of course I wanted to be a Christian, this was amazing. I was completely overwhelmed and dazzled by the whole thing that I was blinded to that fact that some of the teachings of this church went exactly against everything I ever believed in. Mostly, that little aforementioned secret. But I pressed on anyway. I went to church. I sang worship songs. I read the bible. I prayed. I went to freaking bible study. I was immersed in this seemingly perfect community.
After the initial novelty of it all wore off, it really fucked with me.
When you live for three years believing that you either have to somehow change or hide who you really are, or otherwise lose this amazing community and face an eternity of pain beyond human grasp, anxiety and depression take hold fast. I was a mess. I over compensated for my secret by trying to date boys. It didn't work. I prayed every morning, afternoon, and night for my desires to go away. They didn't. I tried to personally commit my life to one of singleness, and that just made me hella depressed. Quickly, I was realizing that in order to stay in this community I loved so dearly, I was sacrificing a huge part of myself. The part of my human core that wants to love, and be loved, and fuck, and date, and mobilize with the LGBT community had to be shoved away. I made a mistake.
I started drinking heavily to self medicate. I lived most of my life completely hungover waiting for 5PM to roll around so I could crack open another tall boy. I couldn't find God anywhere. I was terrified of going to hell for something I felt like I couldn't control. I isolated myself from most of my friends because I was afraid of how they would react (and with good reason). When I finally couldn't take it anymore, I was totally boiling over when I came out of the closet. I didn't execute it well, but I stated the facts, and I put it out there. I am gay. I like women. I want to date women. I want to marry one. There was a small part of me that hoped my Christian community would still accept me like they had before, still love me. Still keep me safe in the amoeba. Some did. Most didn't.
Slowly, old friends stopped talking to me and stopped trying to hang out. When I would see them in public, conversation was awkward and rushed. I know they were trying but there was a twinge of pain that came from knowing they thought my sexuality was a sin against God. The couple I mentioned earlier, who took me in and loved me like family, started to lose interest in me. I wasn't invited over much, and their kids who called me "aunt Erica" did not have me as their babysitter anymore. She admitted that our friendship was going to change because I wasn't a follower of Jesus anymore. I started to really feel like I wasn't good enough. I wasn't pure enough. I didn't pray enough. I couldn't possibly love Jesus and love women at the same time. I was dirty. She assured me that she was willing to work on our friendship through this, but I really wasn't sure. It seemed like an ultimatum. Losing them seemed impossible, but not living the way I was born to live seemed impossible too. The cruel paradoxes in my life at the time became too much, eventually.
I went insane. And landed in a psychiatric unit in November of 2013.
When I got out, it was over. I received the dreaded message from the very person I felt was impossible to lose. "Dear Erica, I can no longer have any communication with you, or be in the same social circles." When I read that everything felt like it was underwater. I remember the ringing in my ears. I didn't know what to do. I had lost my family. I had lost my friends. I wasn't welcome at church or any church related groups or functions she was apart of. Since she was an elder, she single-handily used her power to totally excommunicate me. It hurt. I was pissed. I was sad. I wanted to hit something. Since then, I left Christianity all together. The taste it left in my mouth was least desirable.
I was devastated to the point of remiss. I was devastated so deeply, that for a few months I didn't feel a thing. I had a few friends left over from the train wreck (which now my gratefulness for them extends beyond the galaxy) but, I lost interest in everything. I was just sad. I hated my job. I never stopped drinking. I had sex with people I didn't know. I was trying to simultaneously ease the immense amount of pain I was in, while trying to feel something again, too. I lived like that for an entire year. The world that once was full of love and color and wind and rain and mountains and beauty... became bleak and grey. Everything had this evil tint to it. Even the things I once loved and held close to me. Even the once beloved oceans seemed to have this sinister twist to them. It was horrific.
Then I met Angie.
For the first time in a year, I was having fun with somebody. We laughed, we drank, we cooked meals together. We TRAVELED. We traveled. Did you guys fucking hear that we TRAVELED. I was suddenly inspired to be a better person. We fell in love. We got engaged. I cared about a person on a romantic level. I cared about something enough that I wanted to marry it. It was beautiful and terrifying and exciting. I really, critically, began look at myself. Who I had become. What I was about. What was left of me since the year I let life kick my ass. And I didn't like it one bit. When I actually looked in the mirror for the first time, I realized I had gained a lot of weight. 90 pounds to be exact. In a year.
Do you know what happens to your body when you gain 90 pounds in a year? Only horrible things. My feet hurt. My back hurt. I can't cross my legs. I can't do any of the things I once loved easily. Hiking is hard. Swimming is hard. My asthma got worse. I was tired all the time. I have difficulty tying my god damn fucking shoelaces. Tying my shoelaces now is like trying to fold a bowling ball in half. I am not the person I used to be. I used to jump around and dance and be able to hold high energy conversations. Now, I'm perpetually embarrassed and tired.
What happened to my body? I'll tell you what happened. I turned 23, my metabolism packed it's bags and moved the hell out. I let depression and self loathing completely take over in it's place. I ate gummy bears for breakfast. I put well over 2,000 calories of beer in my eating hole every night before I went to bed. If you want to gain 90 pounds in a year, I can tell you exactly how to do it. Just live exactly like that and you'll be all set.
I don't want to live like that anymore. I want some parts of old Erica back. I want to foster a space for new, better Erica to grow. Slowly, I walk out to the meadow where my tree bears fruit. I am choosing to water it, and give it sun, and tell her that I love her.
I have some goals to work on now. I've got 100 pounds altogether that I would like to get rid of, and from the aftermath of excommunication, a severe, relentless cruel anxiety that I never had before. (But, that's for a the next blog update.) I desire health now. Holistically. Earnestly. And I couldn't be more absolutely terrified. You don't know what terror is until you go out in public and become fat girl running. But I will do it anyway. I will run. I will eat well. I will work on my anxiety. I will not continue to take jobs that I'm over qualified for because it's easy. I will find myself again. It'll take a while, but I will. I have to.
So to both combat and embrace the fear, I am starting a blog about how I'm doing it. It will cover mostly the weight loss but, the mental health aspects as well. I want to invite you to cheer me on, pursue your own path, make fun of me behind my back, and/or talk to me about it to my face. I plan to talk about how hard my workout was that day, gripe about how I want to eat ONE MILLION FUCKING DONUTS RIGHT NOW, maybe sometimes post pictures of what I made myself to eat that was healthy and I was particularly proud of. Most of all, I will be endlessly exploring the deep oceans of what it means to love myself.
I am currently counting calories, watching what I eat, and running via the Couch to 5k program. I'm in my fifth week and have so far lost a total of 13 pounds (don't be fooled though, there was some serious on and off flaky shit before I really got it together). I'm working on getting in touch with a mental health professional for some counseling and medication (but don't be fooled again, calling a doctor is terrifying because what if I say something stupid! or what if the doctor is evil and is planning to perform illegal experiments on me! or what if I die and spend eternity in the hellish void of my own mind!) But, like I said, most of all I am making the choice to love myself. To be gentle to me. To speak kind words. To embrace. To let my soon-to-be-wife love me. And believe it.
This is the end. This is the beginning. And I am excited and petrified to share it with you all.
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
My name is Erica Reese and I currently weigh 249 pounds which is roughly 90 pounds more than what I weighed in college. Which wasn't that long ago. The rapid weight gain hurt all over. My feet, my back, my stomach, my head. I felt and looked terrible. Eventually, I decided to do something about it.
I'm in my fifth week of C25K and counting calories through my fitness pal. I am down 11 pounds from when I started at 260 pounds. My fifth week is starting to get pretty difficult so I thought I'd start a blog to help with accountability. I will be posting my thoughts through out the process, some of my favorite healthy meals, and weight check ins. My goal is to reach 160 pounds in a year. That is 100 pounds over all. Woah! So here we go!
I'm in my fifth week of C25K and counting calories through my fitness pal. I am down 11 pounds from when I started at 260 pounds. My fifth week is starting to get pretty difficult so I thought I'd start a blog to help with accountability. I will be posting my thoughts through out the process, some of my favorite healthy meals, and weight check ins. My goal is to reach 160 pounds in a year. That is 100 pounds over all. Woah! So here we go!
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