So I started writing a post earlier this week about weight loss, because reasons, but I stopped because I was boring myself, and because I think what I really want to write about is the psychology behind things like weight loss, or any targety thing I do, maybe people in general do (I’m not sure how weird I am with stuff).
In context, recently I have lost some weight. I set myself a target to get back to my pre-pregnancy weight by the end of 2018.
Just before I got pregnant I was about 12st8, and after a year and a bit of coffee, cake and breastfeeding I was about 13st2, so I downloaded an NHS weightloss app (you’re bored already, right), and started counting calories, last November, and then around January I did that, I reached pre-pregnancy weight, and started eyeing up something bigger, more spectacular, one of my actual life goals. The idea that I might not be overweight.
This is the undreamable dream. I have never not been overweight. For my height I should be somewhere between 8 stone something and 11st2, and I hit obese at around 13st3, so I’m always teetering on that edge, or half a stone away.
When I was 29 I was nearly 15 stone, and I decided to just go for it, and spent seven months on a strict diet, and got down to 11st4 for my 30th birthday, which was crazy and which lasted about 24 hours, but I’ve never gone all the way back, so losing two stone, doesn’t seem that impossible.
Skip forward several months and…
The thing is this. I am currently 10st8. I am the lightest I have ever been as an adult. I checked through my teenage diaries even, and when I was 14 I was 11st1.
This is unprecedented.
I want to reach the middle of my healthy BMI before I stop, and I’m pretty sure I’ll get bored before then and give up, but I have no idea what people do then. How they stop themselves going back up. My body will want to go back up. We shall see.
And I could waffle on about what I’ve done. I’m happy to, except I bore myself. I don’t have a lot going on in my life at the moment, so this has been my thing for the last nine months. Lovely Husband is tired, I’m pretty sure.
But the other day I saw this quote/motivational thing/ bon mot/meme…
FRIENDLY REMINDER THAT ‘DOING YOUR BEST’ DOES NOT MEAN WORKING YOURSELF TO THE POINT OF A MENTAL BREAKDOWN.
And I thought, there’s no chance of that.
Then I thought, am I doing my best? Is this my best?
I’m bringing up my son. I’m doing okay at that. I shout too often, (more than Lovely Husband who works with children and knows how to stay calmer for longer) but we have fun together, and we try new things every now and then, and he smiles a lot.
I’m trying to read a stack of books that have been sitting on my bedside table for years. I’m plugging away at them, but there are other things I should/could be reading, and I have reading guilt.
I’m trying to redraft my novel, which I’m doing very very slowly, and not as well as I want to be. I can feel it missing where I want it to be already, which is annoying.
I’m trying to manage my allotment, which is failing to grow many different vegetables, but has produced strawberries and rhubarb and raspberries and gooseberries, which I have used.
I’m trying to get fit, in tiny 15 minute slots every day, and I’m doing this big fat diet, but I will stop, I will probably fall short of where I’m aiming.
There are friendships I’m not keeping up with, so many projects I’d love to be doing, and the thing is, I don’t know.
Am I doing my best?
Because what is my best?
How do I know?
This is my big self-revelation. I have no idea what my best is, what I’m actually capable of.
I constantly feel like I’m not hitting it.
I had a school report in primary school which graded me A for ability, B for effort, and I feel like that’s followed me round my entire life.
But I don’t know how to know. I just know, or feel like I know I could do better, if I could just work out how.
I have no idea where my ceiling is, and I’m too tired or lazy or maybe even scared, to look up.