I am fat. I know that I am fat. In fact, if we must get technical, I am super morbidly obese.
If I do not do something about my excessive weight, it will kill me. Every part of my body is struggling under the bulk of the massive body fat that I log along. The excessive weight means that I can barely walk, my legs feel like heavy lead. The little mobility I can muster has been hugely diminished by the excess weight. I am in severe agony from spinal/back problems which are no doubt exacerbated by the excessive weight. Every part of me feels sluggish and in pain.
Something has to give.
Something has to change.
The good news is that I am doing something about it. I have tried to do “something” about my weight on countless other occasions. I am a 41 year old woman. I went on my first diet aged 9 which is a sure-fire way to have food issues but this blog isn’t about blame or making excuses. I am the master of my own destiny…or something to that effect. Hand to mouth equals weight gain…perhaps overly simplistic but let’s not go there right now.
Every diet you can imagine, I have been on it, some with some successes, and some with some spectacular failures. The main thing is that even when I fail, I try again because giving up is not an option.
In 2004, I married the love of my life. For our wedding, I embarked on a weight loss programme I designed for myself and lost 3 and a half stones. It took me a year and one month. I was counting calories, eating low fat foods, eating less than 1500 calories daily. I also worked hard in the gym, a magnificent 5 times a week. I would come home from working long hours in a very stressful full time job, and having already spent an hour in the gym (first thing in the morning before starting work) and would get on the floor to do sit ups, press-ups, yoga. Weekends were also spent doing floor exercises. It was hell but I was thrilled with the weight loss.
Clearly that level of exercising and restrictive dieting was not sustainable…as well as having a life. I put on a stone on our two weeks honeymoon. In the first 5 months of marital bliss, I put on 4 stones eating “healthy” food.
I would make various attempts to lose weight by eating healthy low fat diets with very little success. I have maintained food diaries for over a decade and various NHS dieticians would examine these diaries finding it incomprehensible that I was gaining weight or failing to lose weight. They probably secretly thought I was munching away on chocolates and faking the diary entries. I wasn’t. Really. I really wasn’t.
In 2008, I discovered that I have PCOS which makes losing weight difficult and means that if I as much as look at a cake with lust, never mind giving in to temptation, I’m guaranteed at least a 1 kg of weight gain the next day. And if I eat pizza, game over.
The solution given to me by the private consultant we saw for two failed IVF cycles was to accept that PCOS meant that I would always be overweight. Seriously? I was 35 and was being told that I was doomed to be fat for the rest of my life, however long (or more likely short) that life would be. Said dreadfully bad private doctor would refuse us further IVF treatment without significant weight loss of about 6 stones even though he was happy to collect fees for the first two cycles and yet, the only solution he could offer was to accept being fat.
Months later when I had had some weight loss successes without any help from him or anyone else in the medical profession, on low carb diets, he would casually offer:
“Yes, low carb diets work well for people with PCOS”.
Yes, thanks for that Sherlock. Shame you hadn’t offered that nugget of wisdom a year ago. It could have saved me anguish and better directed my research on the subject.
The PCOS diagnosis meant that I finally had something to work on. I embarked on countless research and discovered low carb way of eating. It was revolutionary. I finally found out why low fat diets with meat, potatoes and two veg never worked for me without killing myself like I did for my wedding. My body has a severe resistance to carbs.
In August 2008, armed with all the books and online research I could get my hands on, I designed various low carb, low GI diets and started the slow process that meant a loss of six and a half stones by August 2011. I even stayed on plan and wasn’t derailed by a plateau that lasted for four long months. WTF.
The weight loss followed 6 further failed IVF cycles, two early miscarriages, with slight increases in weight following each unsuccessful IVF cycle where I would go on carb porn to supposedly console myself from another failed chance to have a baby.
But I had discovered low carb. I could keep things in control and nip weight gains in the bud. And then 2014 happened. My annus horribolis. The most tremendously horrible year that meant that I was so desperately trying to retain any semblance of sanity, avoid being hospitalised for stress and (another) mental breakdown, fighting to stay mentally and physically healthy, gaining weight became the least of my worries. By the end of 2014, I had gained four stones.
I am utterly and completely ashamed to admit that as of this morning, I have put on all but half a stone of my 6 and a half stones weight loss of August 2011.
This blog is about getting up from rock bottom and trying again. Technically, being 6 and a half stones heavier than I was four years ago wasn’t really my rock bottom, I had been even heavier.
This blog is not about making excuses for my weight gains. Coulda, shoulda, woulda. Shit happens. Shit happened. Deal with shit or drown with shit but don’t gain weight. Let that be the one thing I get to have some control in my life. Having said all that, it is easy for the current day me, in a good head space, to preach to the past me. So enough already with the preaching. What matters is what happens now. Let’s just get on with it.
Today, I started the Cambridge Diet on Step 2, 810 calories. I have resisted this diet for so long even though I have a friend who lost 10 stones in 8 months.
Today I embraced the extreme in diets as I know it. This chick who for so long has put myself on fertility diets and healthy low carb diets that mean that at age 41, I am more fertile than I was at age 35, has finally accepted that desperate times call for desperate measures.
If I devote to the Cambridge 100% and it doesn’t work for me, then I am totally screwed.
It will work. I’ve got to believe that it will work. I am desperate to have a baby with my lovely husband. I am 41 years old and I haven’t got three years to spare to lose the weight, hence the Cambridge diet.
Michelangelo was once asked the secret of making his beautiful sculptures. He replied that he just chipped away the part of the stone that wasn’t the sculpture to reveal the angel within.
And like those beautiful sculptures, hidden deeply underneath the massively fat exterior that is my current super obese body, is the beautiful, slim *me*, begging to be released. Like Michelangelo, I will chip away the fat to reveal the beautiful slim person screaming to come out.
This morning I weighed a horrendously massive 124.4 kg….
123.8 kg in my nightie but let’s stick to the dressed up weight. I am only 5 ft 3.
Today I will start to chip away my fat, one pound at a time.
Clichéd, yes but the only way is up…or should I say down.