Hydration is Key

So last week was my first week with the dietician and the new eating plan. It isn’t really different from how I was eating. It only encourages way more vegetables and a lot less fat. Very logical.

The one thing that has been an adjustment is the amount of water I’ve been asked to consume. My dietician has asked me to drink 9 cups of water. This is equivalent to about three medium-sized water bottles. It may not seem a lot for all you hydrated people out there, but it is a lot for me. I hate drinking water. I never think to do it, and because I have a peanut-sized bladder I oftentimes chose not to drink it.

So last week I started drinking nine cups of water. It was a challenge the first day, and I’m one day from being done with week two on this plan, and I’m still struggling. I will say that I did notice a difference in my body and its general performance within three days of drinking all this water.

I felt reborn. I was all, O. M.G., FH I’m a walking metaphor. I’m all reborn.

I’m just kidding readers, I don’t actually talk like that. Hahaha.

My week starts on Saturday (which is great because the weekend and being home is always bad for my eating habits). On Monday of week one, I was a productive machine. I had graded an absurd amount of papers, created an awesome activity (more on this later), did some hardcore wedding planning, and busted ass in the gym. 

I felt–feel amazing.

When asked if I need to coffee to function (literally to breathe and be alive), I almost always respond with a big caffeinated yes!, but last week my one cup of joe in the morning was more than enough to get me going. In fact, it was more for pleasure that it was anything else.

So aside for being super productive at work and with the wedding plans, I read two books in two weeks, and am almost done with my third.

Who

Am

I

?

As far as the eating has been going, I think I did okay this week. Not as good as week one, but definitely hitting my calorie marks and I added an extra day of working out. Seriously, go me.

You’re probably thinking, oh my goodness One Mean MFA, you’ve been kicking ass and taking names.

Well readers, you’re right. I have been. But that’s not all (for 4 easy payments of $19.99–sorry I couldn’t help myself), I started work on the memoir.

I know.

Ridiculous. 

 A lot of the world’s problems could be solved if people would just be hydrated.

I hope week three is even more awesome.

Enough is Enough

I decided against the haircut. I have been trying for years to grow my hair long like Kim Kardashian and while I will never have Armenian hair, I do have good hair, and I’m not cutting it.

In an effort to make over my life, I’m starting with my health. My physical health. I already workout a little (not as much as I used to) so adding more days and variety will help with that. The real makeover is in the food.

I recently started working with a dietitian. I’ve tried everything, Weight Watchers, Jillian Michaels, little or no carbs–you name it I’ve tried it. The only thing I haven’t tried are cleanses because there is no way that is healthy. I decided to work with a dietitian because they are specialized, and qualified. They go to school for this and they understand how eating, exercise and the body work. With Weight Watchers, the group leader is someone who was successful with the program, not someone who understands how sugar, and protein and other nutrients fuel the body. The dietician is expensive. While, I absolutely cannot afford this, I am doing it anyway. My mother said “[insert given name here], it’s an investment in your health.”

She’s right.

I should probably note that, I’m not a walking blob. I’m overweight, but I’m not to the point (nor will I let myself) where I can’t where normal sized clothes. I am, however, overweight.

A lot of my anxiety and self confidence issues stem from my weight. I’ve always struggled with it. Since I was about 10 years old, I was the fat kid. I have two sisters who should and could easily be models. They are lean and gorgeous. So gorgeous, fact, that my whole life I was always considered “the good eater” versus my one sister (who is about 21 months younger than me) who was always told how beautiful she is. I have always envied my sisters, their beauty and their smarts. Growing up boys always paid attention to them, while I focused on my grades and extra curricular activities. Even in college, my roommates were the ones who got attention. Of course, this didn’t help, but it was also something I couldn’t control. While, I’m sure my appearance didn’t help, my personality probably didn’t aid in my not getting attention from the opposite sex. Growing up, I was never so obese that I looked scary, I was chunky. In fact, my whole life (even now) my nickname from my family has been a word that derives from chunky. In fact, one of my uncle calls me “chunkina” which is is like girl chunk.

So, you can image how these nicknames, and experiences have scarred me. In college, I was put on a migraine medication and within about 5 months I went from a size 14 to a size 6. That’s about 40 pounds. Of course in college I did more walking because I lived on campus. Still, I always had a voracious appetite and this medication made it go away. Best. Thing. Ever. I still enjoyed food, I just didn’t eat too much of it. My family continued to called me, “chunkina.” Frankly, it was probably warranted because never let go of the fat kid inside me.

Well, when I graduated I didn’t have a good job and didn’t have health insurance so I stopped taking the magic medication. And on packed the pounds.

Now, I’m back to my high school weight and none of my cute size six clothes fit. My anxiety is through the roof, and I hate myself.

So last week, I made an appointment and started a program. The eating plan officially started today so of course I have to wait until next Friday to know if it is working. I’m sure the first week will be good. I’m focused and more motivated than I thought I’d be. I’m sure the expense is forcing me to be focused. I’m like this with the gym. In the morning when I get up and don’t want to go, I think to myself, “get up, you’re paying for a membership.”

As you all know, I haven’t been feeling right. FH and I talked about it and he said something that I think is on point. He said, “if something in your life is making you unhappy, get rid of it.”

Well, the thing that is making me unhappy is my health and appearance. When I feel like I look good in a bathing suit, things just seem sunnier. Maybe I’m vain, I don’t know and I don’t care.

I’m tired of getting dressed in the morning and feeling like if I was thinner I’d be able to dress trendier. I’m also tired of worrying that I’m going to hate all the wedding pictures because I’m cow. I’m also tired of worrying that FH is going to look at me one day and think, “that isn’t the girl I fell in love with.” While, I don’t actually believe he would think something like that, I know that I look at myself and think, “where is the artistic, confident girl that proudly walked [insert undergrad institution here].”

I guess, I’m thinking if I make over my physical self it will be the beginning of loving my interior neurotic self.  I don’t know if this will actually work, but I have faith. I know it’s time to get over this weigh issue. I don’t want to start my new life with FH hating the old me–the child in me. I want to start our life together happy with myself.

Honestly, it’s been over 15 years that I’ve been struggling with this problem. Enough is enough. The fat kid must die.

The excess weight has been warned. Not get off bitch.

 

Full Plate

Yeah, so I haven’t been sleeping. Those of you who have been reading this blog for a while know this isn’t something new. I’ve had trouble sleeping for a long time. I think I remember it beginning to be a problem around my sophomore year of college. I would imagine that if any psychologists have been reading my blog they would probably find enough evidence to suggest that I’m depressed. I mean look up the symptoms: sad mood, ruts, weight gain, loss of interest in activities, and of course, lack of sleep. It’s all there people.

The thing is I don’t think I’m depressed, I just think I have too much on my plate.

My first year out of college I started teaching high school. It was a stressful job because a) I’d never done it before, and b) I taught super honors students who were to be frank, pains in the ass. I also was living at home, which can make any person go insane. I started getting panic attacks. I had to wear one of the heart monitors for a week. You want to know when my heart raced the most? When I was driving home from work. That’s right people, when I was headed away from my job. Now if that doesn’t freak you out…

Anyway.

My panic attacks subsided in grad school. Every once in a while I got a panic attack, where I couldn’t breath or my heart was racing so fast, or both. I usually got panic attacks towards the ends of semesters when I had papers due, and had to grade my student papers as well. The ability to sleep, never returned. On occasion, if I’m wicked tired or have been awake for a long time, or had a great workout I’ll be able to conk out, but this is rare, if ever.

Well this semester the panic attacks are back, and with a vengeance. I’m not having one right now, but I have been getting them more often that I like to admit. When I first started having anxiety it was during the day, lately though, I’ve been having panic attacks in the middle of the night. I wake up from them.

Oftentimes, I’ll have had a nightmare. Two nights ago I dreamt about a serial killing priest–I’ve been reading the Dexter series–a few nights before that I dreamt that my wedding dress came in, but it was the wrong size, and I had to lose like 50 pounds in 2 weeks to fit into it–I’ve been watching a lot of Girl Meets Gown, and Say Yes to the Dress (oh shush, you know I’ve been good about the wedding talk). I wake up because I need air, because my heart feels like it is attached to an explosive.

Last night, I woke up and all I could think about was the papers I needed to grade. It was ridiculous.

My plate is full. I teach an absurd amount of classes. Beckettian even. I have about 120 students all of them turning in an average of 4 papers a semester, not to mention the presentations. I get paid part-time,  but I work overtime. Most instructors (not tenure track professors) teach 4 sections a semester. Four sections is manageable. Six is not.

Oh and did I mention I’m planning a long distance wedding.

Okay, I know that there are a lot you out there who have way more on your plates. Honestly, I’m blessed that I don’t have to worry about a lot of things like paying my bills, my health (knock on wood), the well-being of children,  and other issues that plague others. ( I’m not saying children are a plague–Freudian slip?).

My problem isn’t that I have a lot on my plate (that’s part of it, but not the whole thing). My problem is that I don’t know how to handle the things on my plate.

And so for the first time in almost four years, I’m dealing with panic attacks in the only way I know how. And that means shutting the hell up and getting my crap done.

Sometimes, that’s just good enough.

Here’s to trying.