And I might be the happiest I’ve ever been.
I’ve been fighting my weight since I was eight years old. It breaks my heart to look back at photos and think how unhappy I was during a period of years when I was not that overweight. And then I got actually quite overweight. Ups and downs occurred, but I’m still actually quite overweight.
But, I have energy.
I sleep relatively well.
My mood and depression issues are not solved (they never will be solved) but I’m in such a good place that sometimes I need to pinch myself to make sure it’s real. The only other time in my life I felt this good about my mental and emotional health, I was on the highest dose of anti-depressants I’ve ever been prescribed. Now, I’m on the lowest dose I’ve ever been on and preparing to go lower. The fact that I’m saying these words just a few days outside of February makes it all the more surreal.
My insulin is the lowest it’s ever been.
My doctor refers to my cholesterol and triglyceride levels as PERFECT.
My blood sugar levels put me squarely in the category of “not at risk for diabetes” despite having a genetic predisposition on both sides and a hormonal syndrome that is by definition pre-diabetic.
I can hike for several miles without having to stop every 100 yards because my back is seizing.
I am strong and getting stronger.
I can’t say with certainty where my weight is because I can’t remember the last time I got on a scale. The most remarkable thing about this to me is that I walk past the scale every day, several times a day, and don’t even feel a flicker of desire to step on it. I used to have to limit myself to only stepping on the scale once a week, and I was lucky if I succeeded at that.
I know I’m a big girl. I know I take up space in a room. And I know I draw looks from judgmental asshats who wouldn’t know a healthy meal if it slapped them in the face. And I don’t give a fuck.