Getting Back to Exercise, and My Capsule Workout Wardrobe
“Sedentary" is the word that best describes my current activity level. I walk around the apartment from room to room, but it’s certainly not the recommended 10,000 steps. There is also the occasional effort at walking on the treadmill. Over the past month or two, this has occurred twice a week at most, always for an hour at 3.0, so a distance of three miles. I have this thing with exercise where I need it to be the exact same workout every time. Not sure why that is, but to some extent, it has to do with not wanting to wash my workout clothes if I haven’t put out the full effort. My current “workout capsule” (if you can even call it that) consists of four sports bras, four t-shirts (all identical gray ones from Old Navy), a pair of boot-cut yoga pants, a pair of skinny joggers that feel more like pajama pants than gym pants, and a pair of fleece-lined joggers. I also have a Columbia zip-up fleece, and a pair of running shoes. It’s too cold to go outside in the workout gear that currently fits me, although in the past I’ve gone running in the snow in a double layer of Under Armor.
Running isn’t even an option right now, because running at this weight hurts my ankles. I have a fantasy that I walk on the treadmill every day and I film it, so I can make a time-lapse weight-loss video that goes viral and makes me rich. I also have the yoga fantasy where I become spiritually enlightened, as well as the weight-lifting fantasy where I become empowered by my own increased strength and muscle tone and start posting selfies on Instagram with inspirational quotes underneath. The reality of it is that I walk a twenty minute mile, and I rarely even do that. Sometimes I know there’s no way it’s going to happen. And sometimes I put the outfit on before sitting on the couch, trying to keep my hopes up, but eventually admitting that it’s not going to happen despite the outfit.
Earlier this year, in the midst of the worst violent rages and deepest depression I’ve known, I’d run every day. I found it mellowed me a bit in the evenings if I “got it out of my system” by running for thirty minutes, then walking briskly for another thirty. I tried to sustain this routine after getting on to some heavy meds, cutting back to half-hour runs, then half-hour walks, and eventually, nothing. I slept a solid twelve to fourteen hours a day, and was ravenous all the time, waking up in the middle of the night from hunger. My weight skyrocketed to heights I didn’t even know I was capable of sustaining. I lay in bed all day, and had twenty-four hour surveillance (suicide watch) from my husband and my mom. Exercise was no longer a part of my routine, but neither were the uncontrollable rages, the throwing things and hitting myself in the head. The meds leveled me into submission, and left me with a good fifty or sixty pounds to lose (I stopped weighing myself during this time). I’m grateful to report that I’ve weaned off those drugs, and am on much more tolerable ones now. But the weight certainly isn’t falling off. I limit my calories, and I limit the number of hours a day during which I eat (my doctor recommended this tactic). I can’t say whether it’s helped any with the weight, but it certainly resets your circadian rhythm. Now I wake up early, and go to bed pretty early, too. My husband and I jokingly refer to it as the “fruit fly” diet, since the theory originated with experiments with fruit flies. I believe the official term is “intermittent fasting.” Again, it’s questionable whether it actually helps with weight loss, but any edge I can get, I’ll take.
I feel overwhelmed and frequently despondent over my weight, despite following @bodyposipanda and trying to love myself as I am. It’s just that my mental image of myself is so drastically different from what I see in the mirror. I’m shocked every time I see myself with a double chin, a belly that folds over at the bottom, arms that look inflated with fat. I try to familiarize myself with what I see, try to remind myself that I’m a worthy human being with a body like this. And when I see other plus size women in fashionable clothes, impeccable hair and makeup, and joy emanating from their smiling faces, I want what they have. I want that kind of confidence and level of self care. But I’m just not there, and don’t know if I’ll ever be there. I’m fully aware that thinness does not equal happiness, and that all bodies deserve love and admiration. I just can’t seem to apply these statements to myself.