This one’s off the clock, and you can have it for nothing.
There is a moment you reach, as an adult, where the reality of existence can affect you in several ways. After I won the poetry contest thing (reading on Friday, pictures to follow) there was this quite clearly mistaken belief I’d be happier as a result of the validation. I’m not, it’s just made me more determined to work towards the stuff that matters more. If anything I’m less happy, because of the mental issues that have subsequently been exposed through issues with processes.
I’m nearly 13 stone. 182 pounds, for those like me still sitting in imperial splendour, and losing 30 pounds to get back to 150 is, it must now be publicly admitted, an impossible task, because to do that I’ll be having to shed muscle mass. Writing this down is already making that concept easier to grasp. The scales later will tell me exactly how much fat there is left to reasonably shed, but as it transpires there is very little at all from neck to waist.
Having spent most of my adult life in some kind of weight loss obsession, this is the hardest thing in the world right now to accept, and has been going on for close to a year. Best I’ve ever looked, or felt, without doubt. I know exactly what is now required of me to stay this way, and will be. Whether the fat can be shifted from legs and hips becomes less about willpower and more about sheer hard work, and actually, that’s more doable with each passing day.
I’ll never be the person I was again.
That’s a really tough thing to say, especially considering where I am now. There was (again) this misguided notion that somehow what was going to happen was an ability to get back stuff that has been lost over the years, but amazingly that’s not how this is supposed to work. This isn’t about being whole again. It is emerging as something better. What gets left behind, as things stand, is a lot of useless shit I didn’t know was unnecessary until writing that sentence down.
The opportunist in me thought this would be the post to do tomorrow so I could link it in with Time to Talk day, but I can’t wait any longer to fix this. Planning and organising is all very well, but is a poor substitute to just doing and being. There’s really too much of the former and not enough of the latter, and the former needs a rethink to begin with. Normally, this kind of mental gymnastics would be enough to break me, but not today.
After a shocking night’s sleep, where all the mental shortcomings were laid out in front of me without fear, its time to stop fucking about. Do it now, or don’t do it at all.