Master of my Fate

So it probably isn't news to any of you that I like food. I was on a reality weight loss program showcasing how much food played a role in my life. To say that I am done with the show and am all of a sudden cured and just look at food like any normal American would be quite the lofty lie.
But before you go getting your knickers all a-twisted, know that I am a lot better off than I was before, of course, learned a great deal, so on. So forth. But I still struggle, oh yes, food and body image struggles are definitely a sea I submerge in frequently. Like take today for instance.
I woke up and weighed myself, which I generally don't do anymore for two reasons. A. My trainer told me to throw out my scale (didn't of course) because I was obsessive--shocker. And B. I know how I look and feel and when things that fit me a month ago all of a sudden don't zip, or my once always present double chin seems to be making a guest appearance, I most certainly don't need a scale to tell me something's amiss.
That I have had one too many pieces of Italian pastry and ninety degree heat is still no excuse to weasel my way out of my workout regimen. But seeing the number somehow makes things so much worse. It's a nice karate kick to the groin sort of feeling. And it sets the tone for me to start a vicious attack, along the lines of this,

Well isn't that fantastic, now your clothes don't fit and you look like a two-ton heifer.

You look pregnant.

You have probably lost all your muscle and can't ever compete in another race.

You should probably starve yourself as punishment.


(I apologize if that was a smidge unrefined, but it's the sad state of affairs sometimes and the colorful and yes, dramatic thoughts that run through my head).

And I pout and fling my things all across the room and look at myself the way I did when I was 240 pounds, which is not kindly. And like any person who has traversed this tricky terrain of weight loss, weight gain, self love, self loathing, you will know that even if you are different, are changed, are thinner, happier, that one misstep and all of a sudden you see the you you most despised and that's all she wrote, folks.

And all of a sudden I forget everything I have done, all the ways in which I have grown and excelled and I am skidding into Miserytown U.S.A population--me, with wild abandon.

As I decided to start finding other things to fret over and hate, because why not-- okay you probably won't find a writing job or an apartment or ever backpack Europe and marry a dashing yet witty Rogue--I was making myself breakfast. Do you want to know what it was?

1/2 a cup plain Greek yogurt
1 cup blueberries
1 fried egg
2 cups of coffee
1 bottled water

So as I am eating my plain Greek yogurt and blueberry bowl and ripping myself to shreds it all of a sudden occurs to me that I am eating plain Greek yogurt with no sweetener, no honey, no vanilla. I have been doing this for a few weeks now, cold turkey on the Truvia, but today it really hit me.
Yeah, just hold the phone for a second. Do you have any idea how hard it is to eat plain Greek yogurt? Like the legit kind, not the flavored stuff, or the ones with pomegranate at the bottom, but the stuff that tastes like sour cream, that I have used as sour cream replacement?
It isn't tasty. Until now. Until your tastes have changed. I remember trying to eat plain Greek yogurt at the ranch and gagging so profusely that I would throw out the barely touched container and make vehement vows that I didn't need to like egg whites and freaking Greek yogurt to ever lose weight. I would not, could not like them, Sam I am.
Now I love egg white omelets and yeah, even Greek yogurt sans sweetener of any kind other than real fruit. All of a sudden mean me picketing in my mind with all her nasty slurs and rude commentary started losing her zest, because stronger, happier me realized something. Or as Bob appropriately summed up at the ranch:

"Don't let yourself be a victim to that fat bitch inside your head. Fuck her."

Okay, I know that's blunt and I like the word fat the least of all those other deragatories, but for all it's punch it also has swagger. I get it, Bob. Shut her up, because she's wrong.

Yes, you are wrong, wrong, wrong. Because you can run more than one mile without wanting to die now. You can eat Greek yogurt without gagging. You can feel like an athlete, something you've always dreamed of and yearned for. You can go on a hike with a guy, and yes still be a sweaty brute but feel good about yourself afterwards. You can shop with your sisters without spiraling into a deep depression. You can accept a love you think you deserve instead of settling for anything that's even a fraction less. You can get out of your own way and succeed. You can write. You can travel. You can move to NYC and be terrified but know that if you survived the ranch you most certainly can survive the big city. And if you gain a little weight, it won't define or destroy you and it's still okay to love yourself even if your favorite dress doesn't zip at the moment. It will again. You know that.

You are not a victim anymore.

No.

I am not a victim anymore.
Ignorance is not bliss.

I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.