Growing up, my weight always fluctuated. My height would stretch for a few months and then my gut would catch up. In middle school, my gut was finally gone, but my mom was on the verge of admitting me into some sort of recovery program because she didn’t enjoy seeing every bone pop out of my body… hmm. Why? Now, I did not have an eating disorder, but I was super pissed about leaving sunny California for the dry desert and just didn’t fancy eating. I spent a lot of time outside and just grew to be very thin, but not unhealthy thin. In high school, I played 3 sports year round. I acquired a very athletic build. I was strong, thick, and even sported a nice 6 pack.
I loved being fit and playing volleyball, but the summer before my freshman year of college, I tore my labrum and was set to 6 weeks of recovery time. I, of course, gained some weight and lost some muscle mass from sitting on the couch for 6 weeks. Once the 6 weeks were up, I was so eager to get back out there and block the shit out of men in sand volleyball, and oooh child I did. I also gained a hot new stud muffin.
Life was great! I was 18, breaking rules set by a controlling ex (blog to come soon), working out, making money, and having mind blowing sex with my ex’s hated teammate! Go me! I spent my days working, working out, tanning, playing volleyball, and having hot, hot sex. I spent time with my boyfriend’s sister in law at the gym and we eventually became gym buddies. Like, I was on my way to becoming an Instagram fitness model, sorta. However, we all know that once you gain a new boo, you are destined to gain a few more pounds, but we were so motivated to get right and be “Vegas hot”.
Then tragedy hit. My boyfriend’s brother had passed away in a sudden car accident. This was the most horrific, heart breaking time of my boyfriend’s life. See, while his sister-in-law and I were at the gym, he and his brother were working out at home. We did literally everything together, as a foursome. Boyfriend was literally bedridden for months. We didn’t leave the house, get up, get ready, nothing. This also meant no gym. For many reasons, sister-in-law and I stopped working out together, as well as talking. Boyfriend didn’t have the motivation to live at this point, let alone go to the gym. His brother was a very big athletic star turned cop in our town and it was known who their family was. Boyfriend couldn’t handle hearing about it.
So we stayed home. We stopped cooking and started ordering out. I even ate fast food, which I never did before. This started in 2014 and here we are now, 50 pounds later. I cannot stand to look at myself in the mirror, but my 3 year motivational loss is hard to overcome. As a struggling teacher who just resigned, I also had to give up my gym membership. BUUUT, my motivation is slowly coming back. I’ve been taking my dog on weekly hikes, doing body weight excerices, and buying very minimal processed foods. This lasts for about a fucking day. Old habits are hard to break, but fuck they need to be broken.
Looking through pictures of life before the accident is the most gut-wrenching experience. Where did I go? Who am I? Who is this fat fuck staring at me in the mirror? I understand that the first step needs to be self love, but I am literally repulsed by my reflection. Yet, I eat 2 smore’s, a bag of Hot Cheetos, pasta, ice cream, you name it. I am determined to get my body back, but I have lost the motivation to do so. I know what I need to do. I’ve done it before, but the thought of having to lose 50 pounds seems damn near impossible.
One step at a time.
Tomorrow, I will get off my ass and go to the gym. Check in on me.
Twenty Something Bitch