Batter My Heart

This is where I am at. 

19 pounds down.

Frustration that it isn’t more.  That I’m dragging my tail.  Joy that I’ve gotten as far as I’ve gotten.

I saw a picture of myself when I thought I was so amazing for having lost the weight and I couldn’t see a difference.  It was…not a pleasant realization because I thought I could and can and maybe in waking life that’s true.   I was pretty yay about the whole thing.  So yay, in fact, that I’m pretty much acting in the way I did when I was so fed up about my weight, myself, my life to begin with.  Where food is a numbing action, not an activity or a pleasure. 

However, I’m thinking that somehow if I don’t make a stand here, put my line in the sand, that picture is going to be as good as it gets.  And that’s not good enough.

So, it’s back on the rack for me.  Back to being sensible and subtractive and accepting the challenge for what it is: a challenge.  A hurdle.  A difficult task but with a reward for success. 

I have a lunch packed for tomorrow.  I’ve got a breakfast planned.  I’ve got a little hope in my pocket.  It’s just…delicate. 

And I need this.  That’s what I don’t want to say, don’t want to have to write down.  I need this on so many levels.   I could slip and find myself in a very scary place a few years from now.  Banging my fists at the memory of this open door I couldn’t scrape up the thrust to crawl over the threshold of.   I will be just that: a dangling preposition.  Alone, adrift, fragmented. 

I know the steps…which helps.   I know the rules.  I know the feelings.   

There’s just the marking of the map, setting of the sails, and shoving off.

This is the journey we have to make if we want to see the other side.   And we have to do it from the buoy the same as we do it from the shore.