No weight loss this week. At an average of 1600 calories per day, with brisk walks (not enough, TBH), you might think something would have shifted. Apparently not. Yet two weeks maintaining is better than a gain, right?
It’s demoralising. Counting calories, focussing on the main goal, on the Sunday morning weigh in, trying to avoid temptation of mid week weigh ins, making sure every last damn scrap of stuff with a calorie content is written down, refusing all offers of a small wine with dinner, a taste of birthday cake, the self imposed pressure on ‘being good’….and all for what?
Things have always come easy in my life. Well, they felt easy; the amount of sheer effort, work and sleeplessness is forgotten when the achievement came home to roost. Hurdles could always be overcome; when a path was closed, I’d find a way through, bringing my body along for the ride. My body, it seems, is getting its own back with passive resistance.
PCOS effectively means I have a hormonal imbalance. It means that my metabolism does not work properly, that my pancreas works overtime producing insulin, which is resisted with knobs on, that even if I ration my intake with almost famine-like zeal, I’m buggered something rotten. It’s damn frustrating to be thwarted.
But it’s only been a two week run, stop whinging some might say. Indeed, say I, though this is not the first time, nor doubtless the last, that my body and I go to war. The body wins the physical fight, leaving the mind to suck it up and change it’s perspective. For someone who has lived cerebrally for the last thirty-odd years, this is hard to accept.
I’ve been on a ‘reducing diet’ (fabulously old fashioned turn of phrase, that!) for the last few years. In May 2014, I weighed 276lbs (19st 10lbs), 25 lbs less than I do now. Sure, it’s still a positive direction for weight to go. And the painfully slow weight loss is based on diets for losing two pounds a week. That would be a projected sixty-odd pounds of flubber. My body invited those diets to a darkened underpass for a ‘quiet chat’. Guess who won? I’ll give you a clue…go ask the scales.
The body declined appeals to negotiate for a child. It refuses to let go of things it holds dear (fat), even if that thing will eventually kill it. The body is not a strategic thinker.
Moaning to my husband I said: Maybe I should stop trying to be something I’m not and just accept that I am this size, that it’s not going to change, that I’m ok being me in this package.
I wish you would. he said, not unkindly.
This was new.