As a kid, I always dreaded the game “truth or dare.” If I picked “truth,” I was at risk of disclosing a HUGE secret. If I chose “dare,” I’d probably end up running naked around the house three times. I never played it very much; big chicken here. If I run around the house naked, it’ll be on my terms.
So…truth. I’m divorced, my fiance left me, I need to lose weight, and find a man. And you get to watch it all happen here. Or not. But I’m going to at least write about it, here. Maybe to give me some sort of accountability. Maybe…for other reasons.
“Can you remember who you were, before the world told you who you should be?”
I think I always knew what the world wanted me to be: pretty, tall, blonde, sexy, smart, sophisticated, sensual, and, in a word, perfect. I can remember thinking the “Like a Virgin” version of Madonna was the hottest and coolest girl I had ever seen. Like every other girl in America I went out and bought a gazillion Jelly Bracelets and mesh crop tops. That was our “uniform.” I wore it religiously. Only, it didn’t make me any of the things that would make me perfect.
Fast forward to the Spice Girls. Oh Lord, who didn’t like them? Their songs were sublimely catchy and made most people want to, want to, want to, want to, want to zigazig ah. I adored Scary Spice the most. She exuded power and sex appeal. Her fierceness made me proud to be a girl. I held my head a little taller and sang her songs like a badass! I bought the new uniform that would make me perfect: camo pants, Dr Marten boots, animal print anything, and huge earrings. And my hair? I HAD to get the wild look, so off to the salon for a perm. Now I was fierce and powerful and sexy. (HA!) And still I wasn’t perfect.
It was at this point that I stopped emulating anyone, no matter how beautiful or alluring they were. It didn’t matter, I figured, I would never look like them, anyway. I worked with what I had and that was that. It took many years to get to the point where I just don’t care what others think about me. It’s a great burden lifted off my shoulders, though. Now I just care what *I* think about me.
I’m 41 now. I’ve been through a difficult divorce. I’ve struggled with depression my whole life. I have Mixed Connective Tissue Disease, Rheumatoid Arthritis, and Fibromyalgia. My LONG term boyfriend / fiance’ broke up with me 13 days before my birthday, I have no children, my stomach is scarred from a failed Crap Band (Lap Band), and I’m overweight. And most importantly, my mother is facing breast cancer for the second time….
There are far more important things in this life than being perfect. No one is perfect. I’d love to find a man to love. But, God, if you’re listening, please don’t make him perfect. I can’t handle perfection. Just make him perfect for me.
I first realized I was different from everyone else when I was about five years old. I hated my father. (Don’t judge me too harshly, you’ll know why later). And at five years old I layed on the floor in my parents’ basement, praying to God that He would just let me die so I wouldn’t have to wake up ever again. I felt such pain…not physical, but my heart-felt like it would fall right out of my little chest. I can’t recall what I did the rest of that day, week, or month, but it wouldn’t be the first time I felt that way.
I suppose I can’t say I’ve spent my life alone when depression is my constant companion.
That’s just one reason I’m on this weight loss and self-improvement journey. At 41 I think it’s time to get the monkey off my back
But, when you have clinical depression, it’s nearly impossible to find the motivation to even get out of bed, let alone exercise. I actually managed to ride my stationary bike for 20 minutes. Better than nothing. Maybe losing weight will help me get off these pills.
Six psych meds. That’s how many I’m on. Six! That insane! (See what I did there?) I take what I call my psycho meal deal. It consists of Cymbalta, Provigil, Wellbutrin, Lamictal, Klonopin, and Topomax. Yum yum!
Two posts in one day…woo hoo. Or as autocorrect would like me to say, “woo hop!” I’m really just trying to work up the motivation to go food shopping. I’ve been living off of PB&J for two days now. I know! What a horrible way to lose weight, especially when I was just starting to do so well on the whole gluten free thing.
No, I don’t have Celiac disease, but when I cut gluten out of my diet it seems to help with my fibromyalgia and rheumatoid arthritis.
So, does the dog get to go to the store with me? I have two starters for the car so the spoiled girl lays in air conditiong while I run my errands.
I say yes. It’s too nice to make her stay inside. And screw feeling too heavy for shorts. I’m wearing what I want to wear, fuck the haters.