It's no surprise to any reader of blogs that these are platforms for narcissistic rants and ramblings. Those of us who write them envision empathetic readers combing over every sentence and feeling every emotion we thoughtfully spew there. The lack of comments, however, brings us back to reality. We are forced to admit that either no one knows we're here (as is my case since I've yet to let people know I've begun a blog), or people aren't reading and/or don't care. Then why write?
I need to write. I need to communicate from my gut. Sometimes I think I need to put words to those things that haunt me and taunt me, in much the same way that I occasionally choose to talk with my husband about a particular issue. Those conversations always begin with, "I just need to talk to you about something that's bothering me without you thinking you need to fix it. I just need to be heard." Here is one such topic . . .
I'm fat. There. I've said it. I. Am. Fat. As in morbidly obese. If you looked at me AND you were perfectly honest, you would admit that I have a significant amount of weight to lose, but like most people you would say, "You're not obese." Like that word is only meant to describe the 700-plus pound house-bound individuals who have to have walls torn down to be removed from their homes. Well, it's not. It describes people whose Body Mass Index (BMI) is over 39, or individuals who have more than 100 pounds to lose to reach their ideal weight. I am 52 years old and my current height is 5 foot 3 and a half inches tall, down from a once statuesque 5 foot 4. I wasn't always a big as I am now, but since the age of 10 I have been aware of my weight as the bane of my existence.
It's been in the last fifteen to eighteen years that my girth has grown to where it is now. I am carrying more than 100 pounds of extra weight. I could make a list of all kinds of reasons why I've abused my body this way, why I've used food and lethargy as my drugs of choice. But the bottom line is that I have let myself down. I have made promises to myself over and over again, breaking them every time. If there was someone I thought was a friend and she treated me that way, we wouldn't be friends for long. But somehow I learned that it was acceptable to treat myself badly or worse, withhold love and kindness because I somehow didn't deserve it.
I am an intelligent woman. I know the risks to my health that go hand-in-hand with prolonged obesity and inactivity. And I could keep you up past midnight enumerating all the compelling reasons for taking control of my health, losing the weight, and ensuring a long, active life. I know I need to do it. For the most part I know how to do it. What I don't know is what has kept me from doing it. This is part of my golden decade quest. I want to figure this out, once and for all.
So, for the myriad silent readers I imagine are out there hanging on my every word, this will be one of the topics I will visit and revisit in the hope of turning my life around. This issue is really at the heart of my address on the web . . . 50andfloundering. I'm tired of floundering. Giving up and sinking are not acceptable options. So it looks like I'd better start figuring it out. Care to join me? The moral support will be much appreciated.