I'm so overdue for a post, and honestly don't really have the time now for one either, but if we don't carve out time for self-careish things like this, well, you know my take on that.
Since taking care of my mom while my dad was away, I've not been feeling so great. Actually, I've been kind of a mess. A contained and still functional mess, just an emotionally wrought one.
Some of my trauma history involves my mom. I mentioned that in addition to her physical disabilities, she also has quite a host of psychiatric ones as well. Her depression, anxiety, PTSD and bipolar disorder went untreated for most of my childhood (she did get into therapy and started getting some treatment when I was about 17, after self-medicating until that point with copious amounts of alcohol and a couple of suicide attempts, for which she was hospitalized.) She also had me at a very young age, (conceived me when she was 16), and the combination of her trying to survive her trauma and psychiatric conditions without treatment, while trying to raise a child while still being a child herself, and her abuse of alcohol in trying to cope with all of these things at once led to an inappropriate upbringing for me. I would often sit with a very drunk mother at a very, very young age and comfort her as she cried and related stories of her home and sexual abuse to me. I would try to be her therapist when I was as young as 5 or 6 years old; knew horrors about the world that shouldn't be exposed to a child that young; and was consistently caring for my mom in one way or another--getting her drinks, comforting her regularly, helping her when she was hungover. I grew up taking care of my mom, and that really took a toll on me. Thankfully my dad was also in the picture, but because my mom repeatedly told me to never tell him the things she shared with me in confidence, I never did, and held it inside for years and years.
I started seeing a therapist myself when I was about 17, and spent years grieving over the realization that my mother wasn't quite capable of being a mother. I spent a lot of time and energy healing from and accepting my strange childhood, accepting that my mom had very limited capacities and learned how to build some armor around myself and to deflect her traumatic stories and wallowing moods when she got into them, to protect myself from her pain. I had to learn to accept that there was nothing I could do to "fix" my mom, and that my continuous efforts to do so weren't helping her at all, and were instead just tearing me apart. I learned how to let go of many of the caretaking behaviors I had around her, and that was really helpful for me. It never got easy to have a mom with such chronic psychiatric conditions, but I had learned, at least, that I had to let go of what I had no control over; that I had to stop caretaking her and start taking care of myself.
And then she got sick.
I was talking to my partner last night about how it feels like some cruel cosmic joke's being played on me--to have spent so much time and worked so hard at extricating myself from this role of constantly doting on her and trying to comfort her and make her feel better, only to be faced now with the realization that I no longer have that luxury. Whereas before her back issues had crippled her, I could walk away and know she was capable of surviving on her own, she's kinda not now. She’s definitely not now. I don't feel that I can continue to turn my back on her and block her out emotionally when I see her in so much pain. I don't feel that I can leave all of the responsibilities of taking care of her and comforting her through her very painful days entirely to my dad and my brother. But the truth is, when I do dive in and help, especially when I'm on my own to do it, I get very triggered. I feel like I've been thrown back in time to being a little kid, hugging my crying mom and telling her it was going to be OK when I didn't really know if it would. Obviously it makes me very sad and angry, and it's difficult to cope with, but one of the things that frustrates me the most is that it throws me so far off plan when it comes to my efforts to lose weight. On those particularly stressful days, I throw back a glass or two of wine, calories I don't really need or want. It becomes harder to get out of bed in the morning because all of my energy is gone, and it becomes nearly impossible to work out, even though I know it is in these moments that I most need my exercise. And, there's some evidence out there that suggest that stress in and of itself can cause hormonal changes that can lead to weight gain (science!)
So, unsurprisingly and disappointingly, I’ve gained 1.6 lbs since my last weigh in. It’s very frustrating and can really make me feel at times that I’m not going to be able to get this weight entirely off, but then I also have to promptly remind myself that beating myself up about it and focusing on the feelings of defeat will only keep me in a vicious cycle of proving to myself that I can’t lose the weight. Attitude has so much to do with success (or lack thereof) and if I don’t believe I can lose weight, then how is it actually going to come off? If I lackadaisically “go through the motions” and allow my depressive symptoms be an excuse to spill a little extra wine than what I know is a serving size into my glass; to pop pieces of chocolate into my mouth; to comfort myself with food and thoughts that “oh, this little thing won’t matter” then beat up on myself when I get on the scale and realize they actually do, then I’ll just end up feeling like even though I’ve “tried” it isn’t coming off and therefore it never will and why do I try I should just give up now.
There have been many points in my life and my attempts at weight loss where I’ve felt exactly this way and I’ve given up completely, ordered a calzone and drowned myself in steak and cheesey goodness, only to feel like utter crap moments after doing it and wake up the next day with a food hangover and a bunch of self-deprecating thoughts. In the years I’ve spent as a Weight Watchers member, I’ve learned how crazy that mindset is. We’ve used analogies in meetings to emphasize how truly silly this train of thought is: “if you get a flat tire while you’re driving, do you pull over and puncture the remaining 3?” Nope. You pull over, patch the tire, change it, or call for help to fix it and keep going. Why should we do anything different when it comes to our weight loss journey? Why aren’t we worth patching up when we get punctured so we can keep moving forward?
So, even though I do feel like crap; even though I am tired and angry and triggered and depressed and discouraged; even though I am frustrated with having allowed my emotions to block my weight loss progress, I’m just going to pull over and patch up. I’m going to keep going because the alternative is to give up and risk gaining it all back and thensome; because the alternative would mean not trying at all and feeling physically and emotionally horrific about myself; because giving up would mean I’d lose the benefits of my lighter weight and fitter and healthier, happier body. And for me, that’s not an option. So, this week I’ll tighten some things up and go back to basics. I’ll pay closer attention to those moments I automatically reach out for a bite or taste of something without accounting for it nutritionally and either choose not to do it, or count it as part of my daily calorie intake. I’ll weigh and measure my foods and drinks before indulging as often as is physically possible. And I’ll do it because I want to feel good about myself and in control again. I’ll do it because what I need most right now is to take care of myself, after being drained from taking care of someone else for a while. And I’ll be really super-duper nice to myself while doing it.
Today’s Weight: 183.6
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