Decisions, Decisions

How do you know which decision to make, whenever there’s a decision to be made? I am not a hemmer, or a haw-er. I consider myself a pretty good decision-maker. Truly, I do. Not that I’ve always made the best decisions in my own life, but I think I kind of get it. (At least, now I do. We won’t go into my processes back when I shacked up with a loser instead of going to college or chose to obsess about a dude instead of following niftier career paths…let’s not dwell on all that. *Cringe*)

On and off for a few years now, I’ve flirted with the idea of bariatric surgery. There. I said it in a public(ish) forum. I always ended up discarding the idea for one reason or another. Like, because it’s scary. And permanent. And has possible nasty complications. And because really, it should be Ok for me to be fat.

The last time I discarded the idea, I went ahead and roared full-force into the world of Fat Acceptance. You know, the groundbreaking and controversial idea that people should not be treated differently based on their weight? I totally agree with that. I agree with all they stand for. I think I’m gorgeous, and I don’t shy away from calling myself fat. (It is, after all, just a descriptor…not a bad word. And I am fat.)

So I embraced who I really was, I stopped making myself uncomfortable. I stopped thinking of certain foods as forbidden. And you know what? My weight leveled off and stayed somewhere for a looong time. Longer than I’ve probably been any single weight in my adult life. My doctor even remarked on it–she was unconcerned about my weight. All my numbers (BP, lipids, etc.) were good, and I wasn’t gaining. So all was fine! Except until it wasn’t.

I have gained 10 pounds. I get it, that’s nothing. “Just” 10 pounds. Except it’s not. It’s not “just” 10 pounds. It’s 10 more pounds on top of the other 90 or so that I’m already “overweight”. (Over what weight? I know. I can be any weight I want to be. But…you know what I mean.) And the thing with that 10 pounds is that it’s different from the other times I’ve gained weight. In the past, although it might not be the full-on norm, whenever I’ve gained weight I can easily see how it happened. It was those weeks I kept eating cake and ice cream, those multiple cheese binges, etc. This time, I’m working out regularly and making the “goal” on my FitBit most days (actually, exceeding it most days!). I might eat “what I want”, but it’s not crazy like it once was. And yet…I am 10 pounds heavier.

And it’s not just that. I am feeling encumbered by my weight in ways I wasn’t before. My neck feels fat. When I sit in certain positions, it’s harder to breathe than it should be because of my neck fat. Working out is more difficult than it should be at times. Life just feels…harder than it did 30 pounds ago, 20 pounds ago, even those 10 pounds ago. And I don’t want moving my body and being part of the world to be as hard as it feels right now. I just…don’t.

And now I think of what I know already. How diets don’t work in the long run, how your metabolism is permanently changed (crippled, really) by them, and that you’ll never really be able to diet yourself to where you want to be and stay there. Like, unless you’re one of the lucky 5% who do. (I’m never in the lucky 5%). I think about that, and I think about feeling this way forever, and I feel…sad. And helpless. (Although, let’s face it, I’m sure that at least part of that is the nasty weather!) 

But, the other voice inside me says, what if you really, REALLY tried this time? Have you REALLY tried? What if you just do Weight Watchers again? 

What if you die?

That’s the worry. Or, one of them. What if I die? What if I have terrible complications that makes life not worth living to me?

Because it is, now. I’m not living optimally, but it’s worth living.

So how do you separate the factors out? How do you really decide? 

I’m still trying to decide how I decide. Sigh.

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