Sometimes I don’t want to do the good things, the things that will get me to my goal, the things that are good for me.
Sometimes I want to sleep in and wake up whenever I want and without an alarm.
Sometimes I want to eat donuts and fried foods and a loaf of french bread with a jar of olives and a big fat chunk of cheese and a bunch of prosciutto and drink a bottle of wine and watch movies with a big bowl of buttered popcorn and not get any of the things done that I say I want to do.
But I’ve been her. I’ve done those things. And I don’t want to be her ever again. She was overweight and unhappy and unhealthy and headed down the road to a very bad place.
She wouldn’t wear dresses because she felt fat and frumpy. She didn’t like to go swimming because she didn’t want to put on a swimming suit. She compensated by saying she didn’t really care what other people thought, but she did. She said that she was happy with who she was no matter what she looked like, but she wasn’t. Inside she hated herself. She hated who she had become.
She would crawl into bed at night, usually numbed by the wine or margaritas she had drank that night and tell herself, “This needs to change. You need to quit drinking. You’ve got to get healthy. Seriously.” And in the morning, she would sleep past her exercise time, try to eat something healthy at work, and then by the time she left work, she would be ready for a drink again. Maybe just one or two at the bar on the way home. Maybe a couple margaritas with chips and salsa before dinner. Maybe a glass of wine with dinner because nothing goes better with a nice steak or big plate of pasta than a heavy pour of red wine. And then she would crawl into bed, numbed by the wine or margaritas and tell herself, “This needs to change. I’ve got to quit drinking.”
She hated how she looked and how she felt and was jealous of anyone that was fit and happy. She was insecure. She had convinced herself that it was okay to be thick in the middle because after all, she had had 4 babies. She told herself she would never be the size she was when she was 25. She cried when she had to buy clothes from the Women’s Wear department because nothing fit in the regular size department. She said she thought sizes were different than they used to be. Surely she wasn’t a Plus-Size woman.
I didn’t like her. Not because she was overweight but because she had given up, because she had settled, because she was not who she wanted to be, but she had forgotten how to listen to her heart – to her own voice, to her true voice, but listened to the lies instead. She is not someone I want to be ever again.