In just one week, I’ll be stepping out of my comfort zone and doing a string of things that make me just a bit nervous. That, combined with the things I know I must accomplish between now and then, have had me tied up in knots.

As much as it bothers me right at this moment, though, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I have a very active fall and winter ahead of me; some items are first-time experiences for me, others are a return to the way things were before my knees went to hell.

Ain’t no way I’m gonna miss the boat. 😉

I remember a time when I was paralyzed by self-induced fear. I couldn’t function at all. I couldn’t take the necessary steps to work toward raising myself from depression. I lamented having no close friends, no one to turn to when I needed emotional support, and yet, I was unable to put myself in situations where I could grow. Depression often blinds us to the obvious.

I limited myself so greatly that I truly was my own worst enemy. Looking back, I am amazed that I’ve been able to pull myself out of that dark hole of depression; so many never do, and there have been times in my life that I was dangerously close to being among them. When you’re that depressed, it doesn’t matter if you have a loving family, great opportunities, or anything else; depression changes perspective and blinds us to those things. It’s not a weakness; it’s a pervasive shroud that limits our desire to change our lot.

Looking back, I firmly believe that much of my depressive episodes were tied to chemical imbalances and weight. These days, I feel strong; not because of weight loss, but because I’ve been able to solve some of my own physical mysteries that contributed to those dark days. I am also fully aware that if I am not vigilant, I can return to that mental dungeon.

This is a time of hope for me; I’m doing exciting things that I was not capable of doing, before — not just physically, but mentally, as well. I limited myself so much because of fear; not just of the unknown, but of the known, as well. Every time I make a decision to move forward, there is still a part of me that wants to hold me back, knowing that even joyous things can be quite difficult.

It’s entirely possible to be excited about new things, and fear them at the same time; I am steadfastly working toward not letting fear win. Fear is a paralyzing emotion which I cannot afford to let win; it breeds and infects my attitude toward everything I do. The best way to conquer fear is to move forward, to fight the sense of being overwhelmed, to take even the smallest steps toward the positive.

Next week is a big week for me, and the best way to get there is to keep pushing my limits.

You’d think that being so close to a final changing point, I’d have this down, wouldn’t you?

Well — to be quite honest — not exactly. The last few days, I’ve been dealing with a certain amount of fear, and I haven’t necessarily dealt with it in the best way.

Today, I’ll only worry about — today. Let tomorrow come when it may.

I fear the normal things; looming deadlines that I am trying my best to meet, but are also stressing me out. I fear the unknown; I’ll be heading out of town with a dear friend, and while I’m no stranger to traveling with friends, it’s still the unknown. I fear making all my finances work out. I’m a caregiver, and I fear leaving my mother alone while I’m gone, and not being able to see to her needs if something should happen. I also fear that I’m disappointing her, because she doesn’t really understand my need to occasionally get away and restore myself.

I fear not handling stress the right way, certainly not in healthy ways. I may not have dived into a half-gallon of ice cream, but I certainly did dive into a box of diet sweets, and I’m not even a person who craves sweets. I knew, while I was in the midst of stuffing my face, that it was the wrong way to handle stress and it accomplished nothing, other than make me feel bad about myself.

I’m human. Occasionally, I do stupid things.

Stress has never been my friend (or anyone else’s, really), and while I sometimes do my best work while balancing on the ragged edge of disaster, it’s not my preferred way. Fear can stop me from doing the things I really know I should be doing, and rather easily, too; if I really want something to distract me, it’ll happen. And when I am deep in fear, it’s my body that takes the toll. I punish myself as if I don’t deserve the things I have earned.

Which is, of course, ridiculous.

Today, I am going to squelch my fears and do the things I need to do to move forward. Just for today, I will stop worrying about what will happen a day, a week, a month from now, and attack the things that are directly in front of me. I will be in this moment. Today, I will stop warring with myself and wasting energy. Today, I will make the time to also do things that bring me joy, and stop with the self-punishment. Today, I’ll be the strong person I have worked so hard to be.

Today is mine.

Recently, a local business owner whose diner I occasionally frequent exclaimed, loudly enough for the seats in the back to hear, “Oh my God! How much weight have you lost?”

I think probably most people would see this attention as complimentary. For me, personally, it was embarrassing. I’m about 95% introvert (and the other 5% lives on the Internet!), so having any attention drawn to me, especially by someone who’s practically a stranger, makes me want to withdraw instead of proudly accept what they likely meant as a compliment.

This is one of many mental things that I have had to work on. After losing a lot of weight years ago, I allowed my weight loss to define me, and when I inevitably failed, I failed spectacularly and quite visibly.

We all deserve to love who we are and the skin we’re in.

This time around, I am not in the least bit interested in being defined by weight loss; it’s as distasteful to me as being defined by my weight when I was morbidly obese. It’s just another side of the same issue. Although it’s difficult to explain to those who have not been there, themselves, overtly identifying someone by their weight loss is not necessarily a compliment.

Don’t misunderstand; I am proud to have accomplished what I have to this point, and I accept praise from my friends. You all have been with me from the start, and you know the battles I’ve faced; I have been transparent because I have needed to work through these things, and I know I am not alone. If you as my friend pay me a compliment, I will appreciate it because I know you mean me well.

But it’s tricky. In the case of the diner owner, she went on to ask me how I was losing weight after I told her I had lost 182 pounds. I understand that’s a normal question, but from my angle, a bit nosy. I don’t discuss such things openly because I firmly believe everyone must find their own way; what’s right for me isn’t necessarily right for you. Add to this that I was in a restaurant and I had not yet ordered. Although I was only there to drink coffee, had I been there to eat, I would have felt as if my food choices would be scrutinized.

Besides, what if I had lost great amounts of weight because of personal tragedy? An eating disorder?  A health issue? This is one of those topics people should truly approach with caution.

A few weeks ago, I was leaving another restaurant when one of the servers asked me quietly how much weight I’d lost. She, too, has lost a great deal of weight, and we had a nice conversation. It was quiet, respectful, and I didn’t feel like I was under a microscope. Maybe she was less overt because she’s been in the same place; maybe she just found the right opportunity, but I appreciated her approach.

Believe me, I know it’s tough for those who deeply want to say something to someone who has obviously made a drastic change in their life. I compare it, though, to asking someone if they’re pregnant; if you’re wrong, you’re in trouble.

Be subtle and respectful, and most will respond in kind. Be loud and perhaps be wrong, and you’re likely to be remembered.

Back in 2005 or so, I remember a friend coming up to me and nicely telling me how proud she was that I was working so hard on losing weight. She told me how great I looked; and then her husband said “yeah, because you were ugly before!” The sad part was that even though his wife just about beat him up over it, he was absolutely sincere in what he said. And now, in 2018, I still remember how my gut wrenched when he said what he said, and how hurtful those words were.

These days, I don’t expect anyone to approach me with kid gloves. I have worked hard to separate my self-worth from my appearance. I was able to brush off the underlying thought of you must have thought I was a fat ass before when the diner owner exclaimed about my weight loss; she doesn’t really know me, anyway. All she knows is what she sees; she can only see skin deep.

As I creep closer to my fifth anniversary on this journey (early next month!), I’ve been giving a lot of thought to expectations.

When I finally decided to give weight loss one more try, my expectations were low. I faked it until I actually worked up the necessary commitment, which took a while. I’ve failed so many times over the course of my lifetime that I didn’t believe for one second that I was capable of getting much past that first day.

I did it, though, with many days passing since then. In fact, 1,809 days.

When I took my beginning stats — my weight, my beginning measurements, my “before” photos — I had one hell of a cry. I made a video to myself so I could actually see and remember what that day felt like. How horrible I felt, how difficult it was for me to move, how ashamed I was of what I’d become. I didn’t need anyone to tell me what a failure I was; every look in the mirror, every laborious attempt to get up off the couch, every time I had to rearrange my body to just put on clothing, every horrible process of hygiene that I will not describe here. (I’ve made several videos since then, and I’m just about due for another.)

Credit: The Oatmeal – http://theoatmeal.com/

I have no idea what others expected of me, but I suspect the bar was set pretty low. I’ve been around long enough that many of my longtime friends have seen me from my thinnest to my fattest; several times over. I wonder how many times I was the subject of discussion when I wasn’t around; how worried they may have been for me, how disappointed they might have been when I have regained weight time and time again. I know it was out of concern for me, not disgust at my weight; when you love someone, you want them to succeed, and it hurts to see them fail.

The thing is — we forget. It’s human nature. It’s why we can move on after tough times. But it’s also our downfall.

It’s why people start smoking, again, after a heart attack. Why we slide back into old habits that we know aren’t good for us. Why we repeat the same mistakes over and over again. Why we jump on the diet train and derail.

I sometimes wonder — at what point did my friends and family figure stop wondering not if but when — I’d go off the tracks again? Or are they still holding their collective breath, expecting that I might stop making progress? Do they have any more faith in me to succeed than I do in myself?

Because, even though I feel certain that I will finally reach a point where I can modulate into maintenance (for the rest of my life), I am keenly aware that failure comes when you’re not looking. When you’re not prepared. When you don’t fully embrace a change for all it’s worth. When you don’t fully understand and accept change.

When you forget.

I strive hard not to forget the lessons I’ve learned these past almost-five years. It’s why this blog exists. It’s a mental check-in to make sure I never, ever go back to where I was, before. And perhaps in that light, I’m doing the unexpected. I’m mindful of the places I’ve been and what I experienced. I have to get up every day and challenge myself to keep doing the unexpected.

Do what no one expects of you. Your life will change for the better.

(Credit: RIP, Aretha. You did the unexpected in so many ways. Nossum Dorma — No One Sleeps.)

There are days, like today, where I feel like I woke up with a new body. I’ve spent part of the morning going through clothing and separating out what’s wearable and what’s not, even though I already did this at my lowest weight before surgery. And I am not back to that lowest weight, yet, although I’m very close. (Hopefully, I’ll be in a loss situation by next week’s blog.)

While I’m a big believer in non-scale victories (NSV), I also tend to get hung up on what the scale says. I also tend to still think of myself as obese — not in the stinkin’-rotten BMI sense of the word, but as someone who’s grossly overweight and carries the social stigma of being considered as other. Someone who lives on the far side of an invisible barrier that few get to cross.

I felt something different this morning; an excitement as I realized that my body has continued to change, despite not yet being at my lowest. That number was back in the spring, before knee surgery, before physical therapy, before a temporary increase in weight (and the process to re-lose those pounds), before working my legs to strengthen one after surgery and the other before the next, before hitting my stride again with walking.

Nah, if it’s too *big*, I’ll get rid of it!

I was quite surprised to find that I could lay aside more clothes for the donation pile, and move some up from my too-small drawer (which is looking pretty scant these days). I also tried on a dress I bought back in the spring that was too small, then, and now needs to be altered to fit on top, and a few dresses that have hung in my closet in excess of a decade, waiting for wearing.

Well, the waiting is over! All I need is a few occasions where I can wear them and I’m set. I can finally cut those clearance tags off. (Yes, I’m bad about leaving tags on clothing that doesn’t fit, yet — maybe as a “well, it wasn’t THAT expensive!” thought to console myself for blowing money on something that doesn’t fit.)

I’m at the point, now, where I have a few items that are still too small; a couple pair of jeans, a dress I bought as a goal dress back around 15 years ago, and a leather coat that has been around for almost as long that I should be able to wear this winter with no problems. In short, the number of things in my home that are too small is probably the same number of too-small clothes normal women have.

Maybe even less!

Every single thing is in a regular size; no more plus sizes, with very few exceptions. And those exceptions are items that ran very small to begin with. I actually cut through the plus-size section of my local Walmart the other day, saw something cute hanging up on the wall, and then realized that I don’t wear those sizes anymore.

I’m no longer other; the only one who treats me as if I am… is me. I need to give myself permission to allow myself to enjoy normalcy without forgetting the lessons I’ve learned over previous years. My life is on the other side of that invisible barrier, now. I intend to stay.

On a related subject, when I went into my orthopedic surgeon’s office last year to see about getting on the list for knee replacement, I hit a wall thanks to a PA who regarded me as other. He told me to come back when I lost weight. I had to delay surgery because I didn’t lose the weight and there’s a part of me that has always thought well, he won that round. Later, I was able to lose the weight and had to weigh in to prove it, but I did it.

Yesterday, I had my two-month post-surgery follow-up with my surgeon’s office. I didn’t expect to see the surgeon — or, for that matter, the PA who disregarded me the first time; I hadn’t seen him since that day last year. Until yesterday. He was very professional. I no longer felt as if he regarded me as he did, before. Neither did the surgeon, but he’s the one who helped me find other ways to accomplish my goals. My weight is no longer a factor with their office; no one has asked me to step up on a scale to make sure I’m within the right BMI range.

So here I stand, perfectly normal, and I’m no longer other. Sometimes, it’s like a fairy tale, where I’ve been given the gift to relive my life. I can never forget, though, that this is a gift I worked hard for and gave to myself.

When I started this journey nearly five years ago, I did it only for myself. Not for my husband, not for my loved ones.

And certainly not for the health insurance company, although you’d think they’d be pleased with my success.

If you’ve been reading my blog over the last year or so, you know I’ve already had some weight-related issues that at first made me ineligible for knee replacement surgery; the dreaded BMI, no doubt a requirement of my insurance company. I slew that dragon, and it won’t be a factor in my second knee replacement surgery.

But now, our insurance company will only extend a “wellness benefit” if you cough up certain information, including — you guessed it — a BMI. They have already said that by next year, any BMI over 30 will automatically require the insured person to participate in a weight loss program (supplied by an insurance company vendor, of course!) or they will not be eligible for the wellness discount.

Whoa, wait a minute. These two things are NOT the same!

According to the stats and charts, a BMI over 30 is considered obese. It makes no difference if that person is a bodybuilder or a couch potato; just punch your height and weight into the calculator, and voila! You’ve been reduced to a number that means nothing to anyone except an insurance company that wants to hold it against you. (I’ll also add that they want waist measurements, as well as some other health-related things that are all in the name of lowering our health risk.)

I’m not going to debate whether these are necessarily good things in the long run. Any positive move toward health is a good thing in my book. What bothers me is being told not just to lose weight — but how to do it. If I don’t manage to make the statisticians happy, I will be instructed on what’s best for me, despite having solidly proven that I already know what works best for me. When it comes to weight reduction, there is a lot of bias.

While I think getting under a BMI of 30 is achievable within the next year, I also resent the entire idea that it doesn’t matter what your body composition is. I likely have somewhere in the neighborhood of 25-30 pounds of excess skin, and that will be held against me. Remove that skin, and I am already under their “healthy BMI” number, or nearly so.

Personally, I refuse to do anything that will jeopardize my success. I am far too close, now, to allow for the whims of a nondescript entity — or anyone else, for that matter — to dictate my health to me.

I am the one in control. I am strong. And I will not simply fall in line.

All jokes aside… does size matter?

According to Racked.Com, 68% of American women wear size 14 — and above. And that number is steadily increasing.

The average woman is 5’3” (a mere inch taller than me), weighs 168.5 pounds, and wears a size 16-18.

I find these stats surprising; not because of whatever research resulted in these numbers (and its validity), but because, according to Racked, I’m pretty darned average these days. I’m a little bit shorter, I still weigh a bit more than their average number, but I actually have a few clothing pieces around that say size 14 on the tag.

Normal? Average? Me?

I have a cedar chest that holds the largest size clothing I ever wore. That includes a pair of jeans in size 32. At that time, that was the largest size the clothing store Catherine’s sold. I was absolutely horrified when I realized that — and yet, there I was.

And here I am. I’m thrilled to death to be under conventional plus sizes; regardless of how the industry looks at it, I go by what the clothing stores generally offer: up to 18 in regular sizes, plus sizes in 16 and up. (Racked considers everything 14 and up to be “plus” sizing, whether it’s marked that way or not.) Not because that number on the tag really means anything — other than price, availability, and style. For whatever reason, a lot of stores still consider anyone in plus sizes as dowdy, old, and shapeless.

The number on the tag doesn’t mean much to me. I know vanity sizing is a big thing; what used to be a size 14 years ago is probably a 10, now. It sells clothing when people think they’re in a smaller size, which just goes to show what a mental game size really is.

Right? RRRiiiigggghhhttt????!

Me, I’m more concerned with the actual measurements of the clothing. Like pretty much every other woman in existence, I have clothing in three or four sizes and they fit the same. There’s not much in the way of consistency. That’s not my point, though.

I don’t think of myself as average. As normal. There may never come a day when I am totally free of the mental idea of being a large sized woman, no matter how much weight I eventually lose. Maybe that’s a good thing, in the long run; I’ve stopped flogging myself for my clothing size, but a little reality check keeps me honest. I know when my clothes get snug that I’d better do something to keep the situation under control.

There are times when I feel like I’m in disguise, passing as a normal person. As if I’m really someone else, and if people look hard enough, they’ll see the real me instead of the poser in front of them. I sometimes feel as if I need to bring up my history as a morbidly obese woman as a way to establish myself. Maybe even apologize. What for, I have no idea.

These days, I make a big effort to fight that part of me that feels like a fraud in this body. Every day, I feel a bit more like I imagine everyone else feels; it just took me a lot more effort to get here. I often take a deep breath, remind myself that I don’t owe anyone an explanation for my existence, and push forward. I am who I am; take me or leave me. After all, we all have a history.

So yeah, in a different way, size matters.

(PS: hubby will be thrilled that I’ve included yet another country song.)