The weight, part 2

17 Aug

When I woke up this morning, I really thought that this post would be about the delightful dinner we had last night. Two dyke mamas came over with their adorable 4-month baby and gave us lots of information on the public adoption process in our city. These two amazing women adopted an older brother/sister pair a few years ago. They intimately understand the challenges of adopting through Children’s Aid and they gave use so much to think about.

But then I made the grave mistake of getting on a scale this morning. You see, I was feeling pretty great about myself. I was still sore from my first-ever Z.umba class last night. I have been feeling proud of myself for doing some sort of significant or strenuous exercise four times per week. I’ve been cooking a lot more — including a tonne of fruits and vegetables and lots of quinoa. I was feeling pretty foxy, so I decided to see if I had lost any of the grad school / IVF weight.

And I was shocked. You see either the cheap piece-of-shit I.ke.a scale we bought is busted, or I have put on another 10 pounds in the last month. The number I saw on the scale was a horrifying number that represents me at my heaviest, five years ago. The last time I weighed this much I was working my way out of a series of terrible relationships. I was sedentary, medicated for depression and spending far too much time in front of the TV. I eventually pulled myself out of it, by joining a gym, eating intuitively and focusing on feeling good about myself.

That’s what I have been trying to do for the last couple of weeks. The reality is that in the last month I dealt with the trauma of IVF failure, took high doses of progesterone for two weeks, sobbed like crazy and spent a lot of time feeling terrible about myself. The last couple of weeks have been better. They have also confirmed that I should stay far away from scales if I want to preserve my mental health.

That being said, I am alarmed about the fact that I seem to have lost control of my body. This too is another symptom of being poked, prodded, medicalized and evaluated. I have internalized the message that my body is somehow defective, broken, useless.

The irony of course is that I totally talk the talk about fat acceptance and health at any size. In fact I triumphantly posted this article on Face.boo.k the other day. I am totally on board with the idea that weight is not necessarily the only predictor of health. That you can be fat and fit at the same time. That the diet industry is evil and that body shame is much more dangerous than a few extra pounds.

But as of this morning, I am seriously considering going on some sort of diet. It pains me to admit this, but I really feel like I need to shed the weight I gained during IVF #1. I want to feel like I have returned to some sort of a baseline before I go and do this again. I am going to continue with all of the awesome exercise I have been doing. And I will keep going to therapy to try and put all of this in perspective. But I am tired of surrendering my body to the medical establishment and to grief. I want to feel like I can make changes to my body myself, as part of a conscious decision.

I will start by calling my Employee Assistance Program. I believe that they have nutritionists on staff. I would much rather develop a loose individually geared plan of action, rather than join a commercial diet plan. I also don’t want to plunge myself into further depression by restricting all of the deliciousness in my life. I love to cook and to eat. I don’t want to damage my relationship with food which is positive on the whole.

In the meantime, I will give myself props for the ways my muscles ache from yesterday’s workout.

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