Self-saboutage

Well, SPIT. I never thought I'd be prone to saboutaging myself, but doggoned if that's not exactly what I've caught myself doing. After working my way down to 163 lbs. from an operative day weight of 239, I thought I was set. On track. Staying the course. Steady as she blows. Runnin' for the roses.

What I didn't count on was the almost culture shock-ish feeling that came over me once I stopped needing plus sizes. Never did I imagine that I'd be anything less than thrilled once my size number stopped being proceded by an "x". Now, don't get me wrong. I am thrilled about it. More than thrilled. But I'm also a little unnerved. As my weight has changed, so has my body shape, the shape of my face, my feet. On at least one occasion I've been startled by my own reflection. Who is this person?

I spent so many years trying to like myself in spite of being fat, and while I do like myself (and, as vain it sounds, applaud myself), I sometimes have the feeling that I don't know myself anymore. As I gain control over what I eat, I gain control in other areas too, in what would normally be a win-win situation, in what has been a win-win situation, at least 'til now.

But now I sit here, wondering if I like this "new" me. The me that's less concerned with pleasing people than I used to be. The me who's a little tougher, a little less worried about what others think of me. The me who is learning that some dreams are meant to stay just that, dreams, and to not waste my efforts and my energy trying to change those things I have no power over.

Over the past two weeks, I've come to realize that I've set myself up for failure and backslidden from a healthier lifestyle, from the changes I've worked so hard to implement. It's time to jack myself up by the bootstraps and stop feeling sorry for myself for succeeding. Who ever heard of a such a thing anyhow, huh?