I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve wandered away from the path of health. Here I am looking for it again. It’s a treacherous path, but I’m trying to stay on the straight and narrow in spite of all the things calling me back to the dark side. I think my metaphor got lost a bit there. Here’s where I’m at: rock bottom. My health has deteriorated to the point that I can no longer ignore.
First, my blood sugar level indicates that I am pre-diabetic. The only way to avoid becoming full-blown diabetic is to get my insulin production under control. I’m going to write a whole post on that later. Next, I have been diagnosed with chondromalacia patella, which is a fancy way of saying that my kneecap is rubbing against my fibula. According to my orthopedist, the only cure is to lose 100 pounds and get all the extra pressure off my knee joint so that it can heal itself. I’m going to write a whole post on that later. Finally, I want to have another baby before my eggs are completely useless, but Robert refuses until I get to a “healthy” state. However, he would not tell me what would indicate a healthy state. I guess he’ll know it when he sees it. I’m going to write a whole post on that later.
Bottom line is that I need to radically change the way I eat and lose a LOT of weight. I’m so depressed. I started crying in Fred Meyer today just because I could. I feel like I’m being punished for something, but I’m not sure what. Bad choices? I think so. I could have fixed my health a long time ago, and I didn’t. I don’t want to do what it takes to get healthy. I’m willing to do the physical exercise. Nobody does CrossFit without a crazy work ethic. But I am pissed about the food restrictions.
I don’t want to cook whole foods. I want to eat cereal and milk for breakfast. I don’t want to spend a fortune on organic vegetables and grass-fed meat. I want to shop at Costco and put the money into our Buy-A-House savings. I don’t want to skip birthday cake while everyone else gets to eat it. I want to fit in with social and familial expectations. But I’m backed into a corner now. The only way out is through food.
Food and I have such a colorful history. The highlights include getting beatings from dad for not cleaning my plate, getting guilt trips from Martha-Stewart-esque mom when I don’t praise (eat) her cooking, a sister who is bulimic, and, of course, pad-locks on the food pantry when I was in high school. I don’t like to cook. I don’t like to be in the kitchen. I don’t even like to eat really. I just shove something quick into my face when I have too. And the more easily obtained and less flavorful, the better.
So here I go again. I’m starting at 236 this time and have to get to 135. Jesus, I’m screwed.