A Weighty Issue
You know when you’ve got that nagging feeling at the back of your mind that something is bothering you, but you’re not quite sure what it is, but know it’s something you don’t want to actually realise, so you push the thought away? Well, I’ve had that feeling for quite a while now. I was really ill over Christmas, and during a 6 hour coughing fit, where I was debating in my head whether Tena Lady poster girl was actually my next career calling (it will be if I keep ignoring my pelvic floor, especially preluding chest infections,) I realised that, no, that wouldn’t be a good move. Why? Because I feel absolutely gross, and nobody would want to look at me.
In one of my early blog posts, I joked that I was sad that since having children, my belly button now resembled a cats asshole embedded in a giant’s scrotum. That is a very accurate description of it, but I was using humour to cover the fact that this actually devastates me. Pre children, I was always so proud of my flat stomach (other bits not so much,) but a flat stomach lets you get away with a multitude of other sins, I reckon. Now, my stomach is more of a feature spread in Woman magazine, with the headline ‘I lost half my bodyweight, and now I’ve got a stomach flap that hangs down to my knees and I call it Frank,’ you know, that kind of thing. I’ve worn leggings for nearly 4 years straight (FOUR YEARS????!) and have finally realised that jeans will never be a thing, ever again. Wearing jeans, for me, would be like trying to stuff your sleeping bag back into its carrier, you know when the more you stuff in, the more seems to spill back out again, and when you finally, triumphantly, push the last bit into the bag, it looks all lumpy and lopsided, and weird. Jeans are out.
I’ll explain the problem in a bit more detail. I’ve always been very health conscious. In the days where I danced in shows and competitions, the training helped keep me in shape, but I always ate well too. Even when I finished training for shows, I went to the gym, ran in a club, did yoga and pilates, and did dance classes for fun. When I was pregnant with Deep Thinker, I was still slogging it out on a treadmill at 7 months pregnant. But with Mini Assassin, I had horrendous back and pelvic pain really early on, and by 5 months, I could barely get to the end of my road without being in agony. So any exercise was totally out. He was also a huge baby (I think this is what must’ve done the overstretching damage to my stomach, he was a whopping 3lbs heavier than Deep Thinker had been.) And I jumped on the scales after he came out, to find I’d put on 3 stone. In the following weeks, hardly any of this came off-I got all the agony of the ‘shrinking back to yourself’ pains, without actually looking any different. I vowed to get back into shape ASAP.
I quickly fell into a terrible state of postnatal anxiety and depression after he was born, and spent the next few months either not being able to eat at all, or vomiting everything that I forced into my mouth. When I started to feel better, I was surprised to find that during that horrible time, I had still not lost any weight. When I really felt up to it, I re-joined the gym, went on the strictest calorie controlled diet, and went to the gym and killed myself 4-5 times a week. Four soul destroying months later, and still nothing had come off. So I tripped off to the GP. He did a load of blood tests, and found that during my pregnancy with Mini Assassin, I had become insulin resistant. He gave me metformin (a pretty standard medication usually for the treatment of diabetes,) which was supposed to reverse my insulin resistance. Nearly a year, and maxing out on the dosage of the stuff later, and all it’s done has given me diarrhoea, and killer farts that could clear a room in record time. The dietician at the gym assured me that the paleo diet would work. She had seen people with the same problem lose stones on it. So I launched into literally spending every spare second cooking (it’s a real bloody faff, most things you buy have at least 2 or3 paleo banned ingredients in them, so you end up cooking absolutely everything from scratch.) Needless to say, I lost naff all, and was totally unmotivated by all the cooking and preparing anyway.
So, back to my Big Realisation… Mr W has been saying a lot recently, things like ‘why don’t you go out anymore?,’ ‘Your friends will forget what you look like,’ ‘Why don’t you want to go to so-and-so’s birthday drinks??’ I had always replied with what I believed to be true: ‘I’m too tired,’ and now the perfect gem, ‘I’ve got blog stuff to do!,’ always met with ‘oh, ok, as long as that’s all it is…’ That’s not what it is at all. I was also hit by something Mum Muddling Through said on the last linky before Christmas, about members of the #coolmumclub not willing to be dismissed at frumpy old has beens. My immediate thought was ‘I’m a fraud! I AM a frumpy old has been-I’d better not link up anymore. I’d better retract my guest post. I don’t belong there!’ I even slunk further down under the duvet, like all the other coolmumclub members might suddenly walk into the room and see me for the fraud I am! I don’t want to go out, because I never feel happy in anything I wear, and spend the evening pulling at my outfit, trying to cover everything I hate (which is like, all of it.) I look at my old clothes and mourn that I will never wear them again. My mum used to love buying me new clothes for Christmas (she has amazing taste,) and 3 Christmases ago, she got me some oversized tops, to ‘see you through the rest of your pregnancy,’ with the promise that ‘next year I can go to town with the good stuff again!!’ She looked totally apologetic this Christmas, as she passed me what turned out to be yet more oversized clothes, to mix up the leggings and oversized top combo that is my daily (hated) uniform. Oh, and I avoid mirrors, which is actually something I hadn’t consciously realised I was doing until I had the Big Realisation.
I’m tired of the self loathing, and the I-could-bang-my-head-against-a-wall-until-I-knock-myself-out frustration that with all the will and motivation in the world, I can’t look any different to how I do now, and nobody in the entire world right now seems to know why. And I flipping hate it when people say that I should be happy because at least I’ve got 2 healthy children, and my body is a reflection of bringing life into the world. I can still be grateful for, and blessed to have my children, AND hate what pregnancy has done to my body. I don’t know how I’ll ‘learn’ to accept this, with the massive effect it’s having on my life. Soz for the misery guys, I know it’s not like me, but I’m feeling flipping s**t about it.
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