It's been 48 days since my last blog post. And I'm sorry to say that it isn't because I've been too busy doing P90X or eating mountains of kale to write. It means I've put distance between me, myself and my goals. I weighed myself this morning for the first time in three weeks and it was not good.
I've been sort of in a stalemate with my weight loss since October but this is different. For the last several months I was maintaining, I was proud and honest and healthy. I even had two amazing weeks of rock solid discipline in February where I busted through a plateau. And then I fell off the wagon.
More like I fell off the wagon, willingly jumped in front of the cart and let myself get run over by all four wheels. Like I said, not good.
And what's worse is I feel like I've been abused by a turn of the century horse drawn buggy. I'm tired, I'm muddled and mucked and askew in my snook. Truth been told (as if there is a point in not telling the truth here) things have been ridiculously busy this last month – business trips, family trips, overtime, toddler tantrums, yada, yada, yada. Just stupid excuses, nothing real. And then one real thing.
April has never really held magic for me and it's not even the fault of the showers. I mostly love the rain (I think it's the comeback of galoshes). Even as a child, spring was slated fourth on the list of my favorite seasons. But then seven years ago I actually lost spring. When I lost my mom. Despite what spring offers – renewal, freshness, forgiveness, the smell of lilacs. I just feel stripped of all my senses, I feel mute, deaf and at a complete loss.
Of course, God knew this, He gave me Lucy in my least favorite month. The only flower I ever see clearly this time of year. But, as much as I love celebrating her birth, and I do, I know you know I do. In fact, just so we're clear ,there is just simply not enough space, even with the infinite room and icloudness that the Internet gives me to express how much I love her and am forever thankful that she came to me in April, this time still hurts. And that doesn't take away from Lucy's Birth Day. In fact, it is usually her birthday that pulls me out of my fog. I'm never strong enough to do it on my own. Of course, God knew this, clever bastard.
I know about grief. I'm really good at grief – other people's grief that is – I actually think it's one of the things I do best in my job, helping parents grieve. It's one of my weird, “very good at crisis but suck at the small stuff quirks.” I explained in my last post about how I named my blog “elley exposed.” Now, perhaps you know a little big more about the “third generation bag lady's road to healing.” I'm still navigating the waters of my own grief and, seven years in, it's still choppy. But at least I'm working on it.
So I've had a bad 48 days. I think I'm done. Yes, I'm done. Just like that, I know I can wake up tomorrow and make good choices. One-at-a-time. Am I disappointed? Yes. Am I having nervous diarrhea just writing this post? Yes. TMI? Yes. Sorry, again, no point in not telling the truth here. I'm nervous because this is definitely exposing, I'm the writer of a weight loss blog and I'm not losing weight. Do I feel like a phony? Yes. Am I willing to forgive myself. Yes.
I lost Spring but I refuse to lose myself.