Thank You

Thank You

Thanks for all of the comments and messages on my last post. I was in a dark spot when I wrote that and immediately after posting it, but then your responses started flowing in and I felt so loved and supported. Thank you.

I had an emotional day yesterday. I awoke from a dream about 9/11 - about fire and falling. It was hard to shake off. Then I went to a work-out with my trainer where he weighed me and calculated my body fat percentage. Monday morning is a terrible weigh-day, and my weight on that gym scale was a number I haven't seen in over a year. That alone brought tears to my eyes, then he did my body fat percentage. I'm at 28% body fat, whatever that means. I'm sure it was explained to me, but I was trying so hard not to cry that I didn't hear anything.

I did my work-out, got in my car and cried the whole way home. I'm working on asking for help, so when I got home, I reached out to a couple of people. A friend, who used to work out with my trainer, said that gym scale is a fluke and that it always puts her (and everyone else) at least 4 pounds over their weight. She said she doesn't weigh herself anymore. She measures herself once a month and does her body fat percentage every two months.

A friend is helping me with my nutrition right now and she said that 28% body fat is fantastic. She was probably trying to make me feel better, but it worked. She also suggested that for this next month, while I'm processing all of this grief and trauma, I go off of MyFitnessPal and quit weighing myself, which ties into what another friend said, "Go re-read your blog post about this. There was a lot of wisdom in it..."

As of this morning, my bathroom scale now resides in the garage, and this is the first time in 890 days that I haven't logged onto MyFitnessPal.

This post is all over the place, and maybe these things aren't related, but maybe they are. On a good day, seeing a high number on the scale pisses me off, but on a day where I'm already emotionally compromised, forget it. Yesterday, I cried a bunch, ate a ridiculous lunch and took a nap on the couch, where I again dreamed about walls of fire. So I cried some more and then went to Marshall's and bought a black shirt.

It really does feel like there are two versions of me fighting over the same plot of emotional land. The 25 year old version of me is freaked the fuck out and is totally unstable. The 39 year old me is okay, and thus far, seems to be in charge today. But man, yesterday, I was 25 all day.

Cookies For Firemen

Cookies For Firemen

Trauma

Trauma