Rachel, late morning, a cup of coffee, a circuit class, 20 oz of water and some oat bran into the day
“A thought, even a possibility, can shatter and transform us.” Friedrich Nietzsche
Wake up, eyes dart open: panic. This is not something new; not for me anyway. Oh, its not constant or chronic, and I am certainly not complaining about it. I am very aware of my first world problems thankyouverymuch. However, the feeling & ruminating still totally suck. The feeling/questions/storyline: what if …?
What if all this work I have done doesn’t stick? What happens if I can’t get rid of my grandma flab arms? What if I forget all that I have learned, gain the weight back and have to start all over again? What if I get sick of chicken? What then? Honest to sweet baby Jesus, this is what has come over me lately.
I think I have reached the point of in this journey that fear has taken root, and I have to find a way to shake that bitch loose. So if you will indulge me, I think I am going to try and answer some of my own questions of “what if?”, maybe you’ve got some answers too?
So, what if all this work I’ve done doesn’t stick? What then? Well, what I can know for certain is that I will still be loved. My partner loved me as a smoker, and now as a non-smoker. Obese and now just clinically overweight. In sickness and in health is what she signed on for, and no matter what, I know she will love me. If this doesn’t stick, she will. I am loved.
What if I can’t get rid of my flabby arms? My grandmother Luella was a strong, beautiful woman. Her parents were both dead by the time she was 15. She raised her younger brother, then married an alcoholic. She raised two kids pretty much on her own. Later in life, her husband died, her daughter disowned her, her grand-kids got busy, and she lost her mind. She had her fair share of shit handed to her. She had flabby arms, and they smelled like BO. I loved her arms. She squeal with delight when seeing me, she’d hug me for all she was worth and the skin that hung beneath her limbs seemed to slap and cover all my sad parts. I have her arms. Suddenly, if I don’t lose them, maybe its not so bad.
What if I forget all that I have learned …? I have a shit-for-memory. I forget stuff all the time. To try and aid this issue I’ve tried apps, asked friends for best practices, bought pretty moleskine notebooks, and plain ol’ legal pads and all sorts of other tricks that are “guaranteed” to work. I have not been a pot smoker, and still I have the brain of one, or of someone who has undergone serious head trauma. This fear of forgetting, its real. I have never been the person I am now, and this person is so new, so underpracticed in this new lifestyle, I am afraid I will forget, slip into my lowest common denominator, and go back to being a depressed couch potato who will get off my ass and sweat tomorrow, after a good nights sleep, when its not so hot/cold/perfect outside. Sheesh, sorry, I really thought I could turn myself around on all these questions, but apparently that isn’t entirely true. Also what is not entirely true is my fear of getting sick of chicken. (Damn I love me some chicken.)
BUT, and mine is currently still a big but(t), if I fail, if I somehow fall off this wagon, I know one thing to be true: I can get back up and do it again. It is possible. And because it is possible, today I will dwell in this possibility. Fear, back off, be gone you crazy-ass bitch, I’ve got some work to do. Lord have mercy, let it be so, amen.