I’m sleeping more these days. Not when I should (nighttime), but naps. I’d rather flop down on the couch and nap than face the world. I’m gaining weight so rapidly. I can’t really be bothered to do my hair. I’m behind on getting my nails, eyebrows, etc., done. I’m letting myself go, and part of me just doesn’t give a fuck.
I told my mom the other day on the phone how much I hate myself. How I look in the mirror every day and want to cry. When I’m walking past the windows of my office complex and see my reflection, my stomach literally lurches and I need to hold the bile back from spewing out my mouth. I can’t stick to a damn diet anymore to save myself.
I need better/more meds. Or a miracle.
The other day, I obsessed for 3 hours while at work, trying to make a decision – should I go to the gym after work? Should I go to happy hour? Should I just get Thai takeout? I was nearly in tears trying to make a damn decision.
I’m lucky when I can get some sleep (naps or otherwise). My brain doesn’t like to shut off. Thoughts and lists, on and on and on. Then I fall asleep and dream crazy, vivid dreams. I never rest, until I’m just too worn out to do much else.
This past Saturday, I ran a 5k that I had signed up for. It was blistering hot and humid, and I was sweating bullets before I even started. Fun-runs are always hard, because there are points where people slow down (to get smothered in bubbles, or pelted with colored cornstarch, etc.). Also, they never seem to be actually 5k. Close, but not quite. Saturday’s run was more like about 4.1k. Which I did in about 40 minutes. I averaged about 15-16 minutes/mile. Not great by any stretch. My best is around 12-13 minutes. But. In the heat and conditions that we had…I’ll take it. I never stopped and never gave up. At the end of the run, I was bright red – flushed and sunburned. I felt like I was going to puke. I was shaking and crying. My body HURT. But I did it.
That should be worth something, and in some ways it is. I’m trying to keep positive. This is the third 5k I’ve done this year. I’m jogging, when a few years ago, I could barely walk 2 miles without cramping up. I’m cooking more, incorporating more veggies and healthy things. That should be worth something.
But dammit, I have 1 pair of pants that fit right now.
The skinniest I ever was, as an adult, was an 8-10. Which is not “skinny” by any stretch. And I did by over-exercising, restricting/fasting, and puking and abusing laxatives. THAT worked better for me than Weight Watchers, Atkins, or any app on my fucking iPhone.
I’m so fucking frustrated. I’m so fucking sad. I’m no good to anyone right now.
I bitch and bitch and whine about my goddamn weight, but can’t manage to do a fucking thing about it.
I’m a miserable sad sack of a person to be around, and that makes me feel even WORSE, and MORE GUILTY. And then I hate myself even more.