I feel that I should make a confession

Snow angel

My attendance at WW meetings have been sporadic recently. I have tried several local ones and not found a leader I like or a time that fits in with my schedule which tends to fluctuate week on week depending on what is going on with work and training.

And another confession.

My weight loss has been…well. Not. And this is probably down to several facts. The sporadicness (not a real word, fact fans!) of my attendance at meetings and corresponding lack of doggedness in sticking to the eating plan day in day out. And also the undeniable truth that, since September, I have been using my old friends food and wine as a source of comfort far more than I should.

I know all of the things that I should be doing. I’ve written over and over again about the need to look after myself, to put myself first, to treat myself kindly, to see a healthy eating plan as a gift rather than an inconvenience.  I do believe it.  Likewise, I’ve written about the fact that I try hard not to locate my self esteem in my feelings about my appearance, that extra weight doesn’t make me a bad or a less worthwhile person.

But confession number three – I am not looking after myself properly. Well, not consistently, anyway. And confession number four – the physical evidence that this is so makes me feel incredibly miserable. I don’t have a full length mirror in my house. I don’t want one.

Weeping Woman

I had to go to see the doctor today. When I left York I transferred practices and the new one needed to do a medication review. The poor thing – she probably expected a relatively straightforward five minutes, what she got was the Incredible Weeping Woman. It all came pouring out; the fact that throughout all my problems with anxiety and depression I had relied too much on food which had resulted in a substantial weight gain, that although I hadn’t had a reoccurrence of the debilitating panic attacks during my recent separation, I was recoursing to the same behaviours, that my self esteem was low, that I was terrified of all the health issues attached to being overweight, that I was furious at myself for putting my health in jeopardy, that I was frightened that I couldn’t sort myself out on my own.

And she was lovely. And she gave me some tissues and asked sensible questions. She has offered me blood tests to check things like blood sugar (there is type 2 diabetes in my family) and cholesterol levels to set my mind at rest, and also to check my thyroid function – underactive thyroids can not only increase one’s propensity for weight gain but also contribute to feelings of depression. And we also have discussed the possibility of me going for counselling again. She agreed that the fact I have not had any panic attacks recently was a massively positive thing but suggested that maybe some sessions to discuss rethinking other negative behaviours might be really helpful and build on the work I had already done.

As I left she smiled and said, “Don’t worry, we’ll get you sorted out.” Which nearly made me cry again.

It is never easy to ask for help. God, it’s not easy to admit that you need it in the first place. I want to be able to fix my own problems – I feel that I have all the tools and therefore should be able to do it myself – but the fact is, I need a little bit of outside support. And I want to do it now, while I am still relatively young (“You’re only 32!” said lovely doctor – the "only" was much appreciated) and yet to encounter any serious health issues.

So anyway. They say confession is good for the soul and there you have it. Rest assured that I am going to keep on keeping on, and apologies if this has been of a sad mental dump – lovely sausage recipe to follow later this week to lift the mood, I promise!