Weighty Issue

I am classed as morbidly obese.  At just under 21 stone in weight (133 kilo) and 5’ 7” (1,7 metres) in height I have a BMI of well over 35 and am therefore at risk of a multitude of illnesses with possibly fatal consequences.           

So, how did I get this way?  Well, I could blame my Gran.  Gran used to take me for walks in the morning where she would buy me sweets and chocolates.  I was then told to eat these on our way home and that I must eat my lunch ,as Mum must not find out I was getting these treats as she would have stopped it.  This is true, she undoubtedly would.

I could blame my school.  I left school chronically unfit as I was omitted from many sporting activities.  This is partly because I was unpopular and therefore was not picked for teams, partly because I was not allowed to wear my specs. in those days on health and safety grounds (these were the days of glass specs.) and partly because I suffered from an inner ear imbalance that means my balance is completely wacky (it took me 3 years to learn  to ride a bike and I still can not balance on roller-skates; as for ice-skate, forget it!).  Thus other kids played sports, I did maths.

I could blame the national health system for the complete lack of support they provide.  My doctor will weigh me,  tell me to lose weight and hand me a diet sheet (containing a large quantity of foods I can’t eat as I am a lactose intolerant, nut-allergy sufferer as well as a faddy eater, probably due to the above issues not being recognised as problems in my youth leading to me being force (at school meals) to eat items that made me sick then to being told off for being ill as I (obviously) just did it to be awkward. (Ah, those wonderful school days people talk of.  Happiest days of your life.  Yes, sure.....).  Then that is it, end of NHS support.  Ditto all the diet companies, weight-watchers, etc..  Eat our way and stop being akward.

I could blame the stress of work, my depression, my P.T.S.D., my chronic anxiety, my emotionally abusive father, etc., etc..

But the truth is, the only person responsible for my weight is me.  The only person who can do anything about it is me.  I could go in for expensive options like surgery, gastric bands, etc. but the truth is, unless I have the willpower to follow the rules,  these will not work either.  If I have enough willpower for that, I can lose weight without such drastic options.  These should and must be a last resort.  So here we go.  Day 1.  21 stone to start.  It is one year to the Olympics in London.  My goal is to have lost 4 stone when the Olympics start.  A low goal but obtainable and realistic.

My weight.  My damage.  My blame.

My goal.  My target.  My aim.

A Chacun Son Gout

I write for pleasure, I write to show the way my feelings ebb and flow. I write to share feelings with you, I write as I was born to do. I am not here to beat the crowd, to challenge or to shout out loud. I do not feel I am the best, I am not here to pass a test. If my writing touches you, lifts your heart or makes you blue, our lives have touched and you can see a little of what makes this me. If my writing leaves you cold or contains nothing you can hold as worth a thought, do not speak scorn, we all are just what we were born.

Failing....

Am I a failure?

More and more I am feeling that I am.  I am judging myself by the standards I set for myself but are those standards valid?  What do I base those standards on?

I base my standards on what I see other people achieve and what I hear them say they do.  The next question is, how much of what I see and hear is fact and how much is distorted by other factors?  Without any intention to deceive, people always put themselves in the best light they can when talking to others.  That is natural and a subconscious drive.  When I see what other people achieve in one aspect of their lives, I do not see if any other aspect is being neglected.  I do not see the full picture, so in effect I am drawing conclusions from limited data.  My scientific bent sucks in a deep breath of horror at the thought.  My guilt complex says ‘Yes, true.  They could be doing even more than you see.  You might be failing more badly than you think’.  My mind falls again into introspective wrangling and sound judgement takes a holiday.

So here is the situation.

My mother is eighty-three years old and has a heart condition.  A fortnight ago she collapsed and is now slowly regaining her ability do things.  She still suffers from vertigo and gets tired quickly.

While she was very ill, all the housework fell to me to do, along with caring for Mum, bullying her into eating ad drinking (she was sent home from hospital despite being able to do neither), holding down a full-time job and coping with my own mental and physical ill-health.  I struggled.

I work shifts so a stable routine is something I am aware is a good idea but am completely incapable of maintaining.

I have a limited amount of energy.  One it has gone, it has gone.  If I push beyond those limits I end up suicidal.  That is a fact I have to live with.  That is my failure point.

How can I justify it?  My mother needs my care, the housework needs to be done,  I have to keep my job or we lose our home and everything that makes life possible.  How can I, at 46 years old, be so weak that I can not cope with being tired?  My sister is five years older than me and yet has twice the energy and stamina.  My brother is seventeen years older than me and yet he too can do more than I.

Then there is the time.  Where do I find it?  I spend 9 hours a day at work or travelling.  I have the shopping to do.  I need to take Mum out daily as she gets depressed if she just sits in the house and her friends have melted away now she is a wheelchair user.  I need 8 hours sleep or depression sets in.  Where do I fit it all in?  Has anyone got any spare time I can have?  A couple of extra hours a day would be great.

Instead, I am failing.

Oh well.  Stuff to do.

Bye.