Week 39–Uncomfortably Clueless

As far as weeks go this is probably the most normal one I have had since we moved.  I still cannot quite get the hang of needing to leave at least half an hour early for appointments so I have been late more often than makes me comfortable.

Isn’t comfort a curious thing though?

We all have invisible, arbitrary limits which once crossed inspire feelings of agitation and discord.  We know we have to do something.  We want to rush back to our imaginary zone of comfort.  The panic and dread we feel usually has nothing to do with other people’s perceptions but our own sense of rightness and security.

Being late makes me uncomfortable.

Being in my body, right now, makes me uncomfortable.

This is not one of those self-shaming moments.  I literally do not feel comfortable in my own skin.

The closest thing I can think of to explain it is the late stages of pregnancy…that feeling of being “done” coupled with the love you feel for the squirmy lil’ one.

Emotionally I am in a really good space and I am at peace with who I am.  Yet my body in space feels utterly foreign.  Thankfully, I am not pregnant but if I was at least I would have some light at the end of the tunnel.

Honestly, I have been toying with the idea of just giving up.  It is not so much a defeatist attitude as it is a, “Girl, get real” attitude.  I have been at this a long time and I do not feel like I know my body much better than when I started.  I obviously have not found the right key to unlock my body’s fat burning mechanism.

Thanks to fibromyalgia and all my other disabling conditions I am physically unable to put in hours of gym time to try to force the issue.  Thanks to Hashimoto’s I do not know how to convince my body to lose weight.

So, I have been asking myself, “Why?…WHY am I still doing this?”

To be completely honest that question has been swirling for a lot longer than just this week.  A lot longer.

I follow several fitness professionals and body positive activists but I am troubled by them all because it feels like you have to sort yourself into one camp or the other.

My truth is I am not either.  My body, my soul does not fit either group.

As much as I want to be a weight-lifting-marathon-running-yoga-bending gym rat; I do not have the body that will allow it.

And I am all for loving myself exactly as I am and I do…right up until the point my weight affects my health and future.

There in that lonely, desperate zone I know I am not comfortable in my own skin partly because my skin is stretched by a persistent layer of fat.  Even as I sit here typing my belly roll rubs my arms, my knees strain to flex, and my thighs crush my veins to the point my feet go numb and swell.

I do not like it.

I hate my fat for the things it makes me feel.

It hurts.

It is also unhealthy.

I also love my body for the wonderful things it is capable of but I am unhealthy at my current weight.  It is true.  I can look at it rather unemotionally and wailing all at the same time.

So where do I fit?

How do I get fit?

What the hell does fit even mean to me?

I have been trying to answer that question for 39 consecutive weeks now…just this year alone.

I am NOT defeated so please do not read this that way.

I am just outside my body comfort zone–STILL–and I am still clueless about how to pull my body into a state where I am comfortable in my own skin.

Then I started thinking about IF I have ever been comfortable in my skin.

To go back more than a couple of years absolutely would not be fair.  I have grown so much.

I do have my pictures from my junior college graduation in 2005 when I was feelin’ like a hot mamma…somewhere…somewhere I have those pictures.

Instead I am trying to focus on this one from February because it’s probably the closest I have come in the past few years.  When I first saw this photo, I remember thinking, “Not bad…room for improvement…but not bad.”  I also did not feel ashamed in the way I did a few days ago when I caught my seated reflection in a mirror.  I need this image to replace the memory of the mirror.

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