As I expected, I fell off the wagon. The wagon then backed up and ran me over. It's been a long haul, guys. Seriously. But, I still exist! Granted, I exist in slightly larger pants than I was existing in last time I sat here to write something. But I did not undo all my efforts, just 50% of them.
It's disconcerting to me now to realize that depression made me numb to the number on the scale climbing. So numb, in fact, I stopped getting on the scale at all. Depressed Me was very much in the mindset of "Fuck It"; the part of me that had made me move my ass and get motivated to do anything or go anywhere was hibernating somewhere far within the recesses of my mind. I cannot stress enough how deeply-rooted my apathy was. That is what I thought, anyway. That is, until December.
December brought with it a life-altering, stomach-churning level of anxiety where I honestly thought I was in the process of exiting my meat suit for good because I was certain my heart was about to burst out of my chest. I have had anxiety attacks before, but never before did they start while I was asleep. It was jarring, and traumatic. Never before did I confuse them with a heart attack.
Going from dreamland to dying in 2 seconds was something I hope I never experience again. Thankfully, the logical part of my brain was screaming at the part that was losing its shit to calm the fuck down, and I listened and forced myself to enact some deep breathing while looking at the ceiling fan and petting the dog. It took about 15 minutes of sweating, hyperventilating, checking my pulse, and finally relaxing before I was exhausted enough to sleep again.
Sadly, this event triggered a few other events, doctors appointments, and anti-anxiety meds just so I could go to the dentist and behave like a normal person. It also triggered my highest level of "Fuck It", and goddamn, I was really good at it. I am lucky to have such a wonderfully supportive and understanding husband because he really lifts me up when I feel like I am sinking. He didn't stop me from getting fatter, though (goddammit Kevin!), so I ate whatever the hell I wanted. All winter. All Spring.
Then, out of nowhere, the fog lifted and I started feeling like a person again. I was cheerful again. I was funny again without the gallows humour. I was me; I got up, showered, made the bed, got dressed. I didn't have to force myself to go out, I actually wanted to go. I started reading again, which was something I just didn't have the focus to do previously. And instead of watching the same old thing on TV all the time (I know every word to every episode of How I Met Your Mother...thanks, depression!), I decided to turn on something new for a change one morning a couple weeks ago.
Enter WHAT THE HEALTH, a documentary on Netflix that just peaked my interest one morning. I sat in my recliner, coffee in hand, and pressed Play. It started out a little slow, but it gained momentum; I had such visceral reactions to the content in places that I retched a couple times. I felt angry at, in awe of, and absolutely disgusted by the human race for the rest. I watched the entire thing, and I felt something in me break. The mere thought of dead animals as a food source made me feel like I was going to vomit. The chore of making meatballs the next day for my best friend's bachelorette party made me feel physically repulsed. As I said to my husband the day the dam broke, it was like a veil had been lifted that I couldn't put back on. What the fuck had I done to myself? We host people for parties and BBQs etc all the time... no way could I keep that going unchanged. How could I ever be so hypocritical as to call myself an animal lover and then sit down to eat one because everyone else is doing it?
The short answer is, I couldn't. I can't. Not anymore. There are countless reasons why I won't eat meat again, and why I wish other people wouldn't either, but none of them are going to convince anyone of anything. I know myself goddamned well enough to know that if someone had told me not to eat meat 3 weeks ago, I would have laughed & told them to go fuck themselves. And when I realized that watching that video was the catalyst for my own shift in thinking, I cried. I was scared that my husband was going to think I was nuts. I was scared my friends and family would mock me for my choice. So scared, in fact, I partly lied to them. I told them I am giving up meat because of my stomach issues, and while that is true (eating beef and pork are like playing Russian Roulette for me), the main reason for me is ethical, based on a slurry of emotions and logic. Not feeling like I am going to shit a meat-wrapped brick every time I have a steak is an added benefit.
I should note, my husband is being his usual, incredibly supportive self and is eating clean right along with me, with a few exceptions: obviously me changing my mind about meat on the fly didn't magically morph all the things in our freezer into veggies and tofu. A couple of meals of ours have been as simple as mine having extra vegetables and his having a meat component. I am not militant, wasteful, or insane. We bought it for food, and he will eat it as food.
Anyway, with all the energy and motivation back, I have lost 7 lbs in the past 2 weeks from having to really pay attention to what I am eating. I am happy, I feel refreshed, and I am still me.
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