This week, I will be starting a fitness challenge.
Thus continues my plight to lose the rest of the depression/baby weight. As readers will remember, my husband and I opted to use some of our savings to hire a personal trainer, when I plateaued after losing 43 pounds.
The competition is to see who can lose the most weight (percentage). I figure I’ve got a good shot given that I’m motivated, I’ve put my money where my mouth is and I have a lot of weight to lose with some really unattractive stretch marks which will be featured prominently in my “Before Pictures”.
But also, I can’t really lose. Well to clarify, I can lose in multiple ways. I can lose the competition and I can lose the weight. So all in all, I figure it’s a win-win.
I’ve written about my struggle with body image. I’ve talked about my frustration about how I read so many blogs and articles about how I should embrace my baby-destroyed body. I’ve talked about how I hate my body now and how no matter what, I can’t be OK with what happened to my body.
To be intellectually honest here, what these women are trying to do is to provide some restructuring and reframing on how us mothers view our bodies. They are trying to be constructive and give us the tools to view ourselves in a more positive light.
It’s a good tact and I appreciate what they’re doing.
But I got a whole other bag of worms to deal with.
For me – the physical and superficial is only part of what’s going on.
My weight gain wasn’t just because of my baby. I’m still in recovery. I’m still dealing with triggers from the perinatal depression. Looking down at the saggy belly takes me back to those miserable weeks. It reminds me of that awful postpartum rash that woke me up at night, causing me to cry and rip my skin open in desperation. It reminds me of squeezing into maternity jeans that fit worse than before I had the baby. I see the dimpled skin around those stretch marks and I see darkness. I see hopelessness. I’m reminded of how I wanted to run away and throw my beautiful life away.
Each pound I lose, is one more nail that I hammer into the coffin of perinatal depression, as I work to pull those horrible memories and seal them up where they can’t hurt me anymore. Each percent of lost body fat is one step closer to the light. It’s one step further to recovery. Each dropped inch from my waist is an inch that my heart expands.
As my heart expands, it fills like a water bucket brimming with more and more love for my baby until it overflows and showers me in the love and connection that I couldn’t have imagined six months ago.
So goodbye beer. Goodbye reckless eating. Hello sneakers and spandex. Hello sweat.
Let’s do this.