So I’ve been forced to conclude that my brain is broken. As I mentioned before, I lost nearly 90 pounds last year. Yay! But over the last two months, I’ve gained about six back. Not cool, but not the end of the world, right? I’ve still lost over 80 pounds, and I’m still working out; I just need to make a few adjustments and get back on track. I’m working on the whole “not hiding anymore” issue that I wrote about before, so this shouldn’t be a big deal. For a lot of people, six pounds would be a blip, a weekend binge, a normal fluctuation, typical holiday weight gain. For a lot of people, you probably wouldn’t even be able to tell by looking at them. Six pounds. Not a big deal.
Unless your brain is broken. Six pounds and I am fat again. Six pounds and I feel parts of me shake and wiggle and shift when I walk. I look in the mirror and those cheekbones I was just beginning to recognize (and maybe even admire) are gone, lost in puddles of soggy flesh. My eyes are little piggy gimlet eyes peering out between folds of fat. I move around the house awkwardly, as though I can’t fit into smaller spaces anymore. Six pounds. The mirror also shows me that instead of the waist that was starting to emerge, there are rolls and folds and bulges like 80 pounds ago. Forget muffin tops; I am what happens when you overfill the muffin tin and the batter rises and pours over the top edge, across the pan, and down into the bottom of your oven to burn and stink up your entire house for days.
Six pounds, and I am fat. Again.
I know logically it can’t be real. Objectively, six pounds are not that many. Objectively, a couple of pairs of non-stretchy jeans feel a little tighter, and one shirt feels snug on my arms. That’s it.
But my brain is broken.
So I look in the mirror and despair. All my hard work, self-discipline, sacrifice, every morning that I got up at 5:45 and exercised for two hours and then made the kids go for a long walk in the afternoon, every favourite food that I said no to, every calorie I counted, every goal that I reached now feels wasted. Because of six pounds.
It’s ridiculous. I know that.
But it isn’t any less real.
So I have to conclude that my brain is broken. What do you do with a broken brain? It’s not like you can put a cast on it and say, “Just stay off it for six weeks.” Is this what will happen again and again? Every time I reach a weight-loss goal and get used to my new body, my brain will adjust and start to see the new body as still fat? Every time I gain a few pounds (I’m looking at you, Christmas), it will devastate me and send me spiraling into motivation-killing despair because my brain shows me things that aren’t there?
Then I have to ask, what else is my brain distorting? Is my daughter not really as cute as I think she is? My self-inflicted haircut doesn’t actually suit me? My eye make-up makes me look like a raccoon and I have no idea? The new rugs I chose are garish and obnoxious?
And will I never be happy with my weight? It’s not exactly my goal to end up with an eating disorder through all this (Though I suppose you could have already described my eating as “disordered,” so this would just be a different variety of disordered eating). Maybe my dream of reaching a goal weight, maintaining it, and just living my healthy life from then on is truly just a fantasy. I mean, I’ve always assumed that it will take daily effort to maintain my goal weight; that’s not the issue. I have no problem with effort. But battling with my own brain every single day of my life to try to see myself as I really am? I didn’t sign up for that fight.
Through the nine months of hard work to reach my initial goal, it never once occurred to me that it would just be easier to stay overweight. But since then (and especially since the six pounds), that thought has been with me every day. Every day, I have to remind myself why I’m doing this. And I’m not even working as hard as I was at my peak workouts. I was supposed to reach the finish line and rejoice! To relax into the “new me,” go on a shopping spree, and be proud of myself. Instead, I’m fighting my stupid broken brain every day to keep pushing forward, because I know, objectively, what I am seeing cannot be real. And I resent it.
Petty, I know. And self-pity. But that’s where I am.
Six pounds fat with a broken brain.