Like a phoenix, I will rise from the ashes.

Okay, that may be a little dramatic. Especially considering there has been no great reason why I have disappeared; no reason for my lack of blog posts other than I was busy, and I was embarrassed by my level of stress eating. I've found throughout my journey that this is a "walking 15 miles in the snow, uphill both ways" type climb, and sometimes I trip and roll down the hill and have to restart.

As much as I mean that figuratively, there's also some literal meaning to it. Living in the valley of Connecticut ain't no joke, especially when you're trudging your way up a hill. Over the last month, I've tried walking a few times around my neighborhood only to end a sweaty, out of breath, hot damn mess. I'm not sure if it was because I was still recovering from my bronchitis, or if the hills are really that steep, but I thought my calves were going to explode and my chest was going to catch fire and burst, especially on the hills that I would have to climb to get back home. One of the major questions that flew through my mind(other than, "how the hell am I getting up this hill?" and "will someone please kill me?") was, "how did I ever let myself get this out of shape?".

Some answers to that last question are easily answered, and other answers are not so much. If you were to look back over the last 12 years of my life, you would be able to see a steady increase of weight alongside a steady decrease of activity and exercise. It would be much easier to play the victim, and I have before, and say that because of my genetics or my multiple moves and other terrible life experiences, I gained the weight. But then I would have to look at my brother who share the same genetics, and made the same moves with me, and still turned out to be in prime physical shape. (Yes, boys are different but still.) I can only blame myself, and my poor eating and exercising choices. I don't say this because I'm feeling bad for myself, although I definitely have felt bad for myself, I say this as conformation and acceptance that I cannot go back and change the past; I can only change the future.

Gorging on cake, and soda and all the bad things I hate that I love would be much easier, but obviously the easy way is not working for me, and hasn't for awhile. I'm thankful that I've recognized this, and I'm thankful that even though I've stopped, I restarted again with minimal damage. I might not be where I was a month ago, but I'm climbing my way back. Or you know, rising from the ashes.

C-c-c-changes.

I haven't written in a week because work has been incredibly busy, and I have been sick with bronchitis and an ear infection in both my ears. I apologize profusely, and hopefully I will be able to keep a constant stream of posts coming.

Last Saturday, we helped my friend move from her apartment. I was anxious before we went, because she had lived on the third floor, and as you may know; stairs are the bane of my existence. My first ascent up the winding stairs seemed to go okay, and I felt confidence that I would be able to do this. After all, I am 20lbs lighter and in a little bit better shape. After the fourth or fifth time I went up and back down, my knee was calling out for reprieve and I was sweating like a factory worker. I was exhausted and in pain, but not as bad as I would have been almost 2 months ago. Two months ago, I would have complained the entire time about how tired and hot I was, and I would be searching to find the lightest items to take down. My laziness would compete against my want to help my friend, and more than likely, it would have won. Being able to walk up and down stairs multiple times in a row should not be something that I am proud of, but I am proud nonetheless. It's baby steps and baby achievements like these are going to carry me through this.

Marta's birthday was on Thursday, and we had a party for her on Saturday, and from Thursday to Sunday, I ate like it was my last weekend alive and I just wanted to enjoy everything all at once. I couldn't resist birthday cake or birthday pie, so I had 3 or 4 pieces over the course of the weekend. I wanted to celebrate my best friend's birthday, so I drank and partied with everyone. I didn't want healthy food, so I ate pizza. I was too nervous to step on my scale this morning to see the damage, but I can only assume I have gained something back.

When I do finally face my scale fear, and step on, I know I will be disappointed but I won't be distraught. I understand that I need to learn better self control, and that I need to say no more. But I have never met a piece of cake or pie that I didn't like, and how could I say no? It was my best friend's birthday.

I've hit my rock bottom when it comes to my weight, and I am fighting to climb back up. Thankfully, I have my family and my friends to catch me when I fall. I also have them to help me change, and help me grow into a better, healthier version of myself.

Changes have started, and they are still coming. I just need to learn to embrace them.

A small toddler.

After an internal battle of whether or not I wanted to step on the scale today, I finally did. When I looked down, I completely expected another gain rather than a loss and I was pleasantly surprised. I'm officially down 20lbs! I've lost a small toddler! Or a giant cat! Or two sacks of potatoes! Whatever the unit of measurement is that you prefer to represent 20lbs, I've lost it!

When I first started this, I saw the pounds fly off like little birds in the distance and I was full of happiness and I was super braggy. I made sure I told everyone how good I was doing, and how when I get super hot When I reached 10lbs, I felt like a supermodel and I was convinced that I was one. Active imagination aside, I knew that I was feeling good and I would soon start to look good. My progress has been slow, partially due to my camping weekend and partially due to my body slowing its pace. My weight was not put on in a matter of weeks or months, it steadily kept crept up each year, and I would rather my weight be shed slowly.

I haven't been a healthy weight in over a decade, so when I try to imagine what that means I become a little overwhelmed. I try to picture my outside matching my insides, and the way I feel about myself now, and it's almost impossible because I am so used to looking in a mirror and seeing a larger version of myself. I love myself despite the excess weight and minor things I'd like to change about my appearance. (I'm lookin' at you nose and bushy eyebrows.) I've always had good sense of who I am outside of my weight, and despite my need and want to change my weight, I have always been confident in myself. I was born with my confidence and I will carry this confidence with me for the rest of my life.

I keep mentioning how I'm not in this alone, and I truly know that I am not, especially when it comes to my sister Melissa who I want to brag about for just a second. Without her I would have given up a long time ago. She was the one who initially started this whole thing, and went out and bought our groceries. She is continually buying the healthy food, even when I beg and plead for candy, she kindly reminds me that it may not be the wisest choice for me to have. Melissa has lost 25.5lbs and I have never been so proud of her in my entire life. She's transforming before my very eyes, and in all positive ways. Melissa has always been someone I looked up to, and wanted to be like, and now more than ever I feel that way. She is the steady rock in all this, and I'm thankful that I have her. She has been there to commiserate with me when my stomach is an empty pit and no matter what I eat, it will never be full again. She has also been here to rejoice with me in my losses. Together we're gaining so much more, and our bond as sisters is becoming stronger. I love her infinitely, and I am excited to continue this path with her.

I always like to joke than when I do reach my goal weight, I'll be the size of a small child. While that is untrue, I am content enough to know that thus far, I have lost the weight of a small toddler. And by the time I am through, I will have lost enough weight that it equals out to another human. I don't look at my life in days or weeks or months, I look at my life in minutes and hours; and I don't look at my weight in pounds and percentages, I look at my weight in rewards and I see a manicure and pedicure in my very near future.

Motivation.

I don't feel very fabulous today. In fact, I haven't been feeling fabulous the last week. I don't know if it's because I was sad that my brother left, or if it's because I feel as if I was getting sick. For whatever the reasons were, I haven't felt like myself in a week.

Whenever I feel the slow creep of depression cast over me like a cloud, I lose all motivation and interest in everything and everyone I love. I start to doubt all the positives in my life, and slowly turn them into negatives. The fatigue steep in my bones like tea, and I am unable to move for even the most basic needs. Using the bathroom is a task that requires a pep talk, and turning over in my bed makes my bones rattle and scream out. It's not an unusual thing, and I know I'm not the only person in the world to feel this way; but when it's happening to me, I feel like Tom Hanks in Castaway. Very isolated and alone. I know, truly and deeply, that I am not alone, and that I never have been nor do I need to every worry that I will be; but during times like this it's hard to remember that. It's hard to find the motivation to pull myself out of this.

The problem this time isn't unhealthy food. It's my unhealthy habits surrounding food. For the past week, I have either eaten too much or too little of a meal, and drank barely any water. My hydration level was low, and therefore effecting every facet of my daily life. Like I said, the basic tasks are the hardest to find motivation for. Whereas before, I would find reasons to get up and move from my desk, from my couch, from my bed; I found none. Wherever I plopped myself down was where I was until I needed to move.

This week I decided that no matter how unmotivated I feel and how much sadness I feel in my tendons and my sinews, I will do things each day to improve my life. Whether that be writing this blog, drinking more water or excerising, I will do it. Old habits are hard to kill, but I have to start somewhere.

Today I have eaten all my meals and snacks and despite feeling hungry for more, I have not given in, and tried to barter with co-workers for more. I have drank 3 bottles of water, and I have plans to go walking tonight with Melissa and Pulito. I'm attempting to put mountains and miles between my depression and me, and the only way I can do that is if I fight instead of accepting this as fate. Depression is a lonely hell, but I'm not willing to stay there.

Tug and pull.

For almost the entirety of my adult life, my Grandma and Auntie have been trying to convince me to get gastric bypass surgery or something similar. This isn't presented in the form of tenderness and well being, it's presented in the form of them giving me an age that if I don't die by, they would be greatly shocked. I am a stubborn person, and each time I am told that I must immediately call my doctor and schedule my pre-op appointment, I become more firm in my decision to not have the surgery.

I have considered the option of weight loss surgery, and I've made lists detailing all the pros and cons I could think of. I researched online success stories and horror stories. The horror stories stuck with me much more due to my severe hypochondria. I weighed my options (and myself multiple times trying to decide if I really needed it), and I consulted a few friends and asked their advice. I once worked with a woman who had gastric bypass done and she told me she regretted it because of the excess skin she was unable to get rid of. She said medically she felt great, and had never felt better about herself except when it came to the excess skin.

I have always flipped flopped on the idea of surgery. I've already had surgery on my stomach to remove my gall bladder back in January 2012. The doctors weren't sure if I was going to be cut open or I was able to have a laparoscopic procedure. The reason was that I was so big, and they weren't sure which would be safer. In the end they were able to perform the surgery done laparoscopically, and I came out of it with three scars the size of ants. I was so relived that I wouldn't have a giant scar that would prevent me from fulfilling my true destiny: bikini model. Kidding, I'm totally becoming a mermaid. How will I ever find my perfect merman if I have the scar the size of a toddler's arm?

Another reason why I decided against weight loss surgery is because if I have surgery and it's a quick fix with minimal effort (because let's face it, my full name is Sarah I'll Do It Tomorrow With Minimal Effort Tompkins), then what am I accomplishing? Yes, I will have a healthier body; but will I have a healthier mindset? For me personally, I know I wouldn't. I wouldn't be working through my issues with food. As much as I don't want to admit it, I definitely have issues with foods. I frequently feel the tug of what I know I should eat and the pull of what I shouldn't. It's a never ending tug of war, and more often than not the food I shouldn't eat wins.

I'm not saying that weight loss surgery is a negative thing; but for me I need to discover which emotions are attached to food and how I can live my life without relying on food for emotional support. If there comes a time when after eating healthy and working out, I'm still failing; I'll consult my doctor.

One of my main goals this week has been trying to maintain awareness as to which emotions make me want to binge eat. And I try and find healthy distractions to prevent that from happening. It doesn't always work, but I know that eventually I will learn to replace my comfort foods with comfort activities. There will always be a tug and pull and one side will always win out, but as long as the healthy side wins more often than not, I'll be satisfied.

Rinse, and repeat.

I'm finally back, but unfortunately not better than ever. It's been awhile, and a lot has happened. All good things for my happiness, but not good for my waistline.

Our younger brother Michael came to visit on July 10, and Melissa and I were over the moon. Due to us living on opposite ends of the East Coast, we haven't seen much of each other in three years. He flew up on a Wednesday, and we went camping on Thursday until Sunday.

I knew it was going to be tough while camping not to fall prey to s'mores and hot dogs and alcohol and soda. I failed miserably. It was as if I was about to hibernate for Winter and I needed to consume all the food that I could. I had like 18 s'mores over the course of 4 days, and the worst part was when on Friday morning I woke up and ate a s'more without cooking it and with morning dew on it. I was hungry, there was no fire and I let the hunger and lack of survival skills get the best of me.

Over the next three days, I ate and drank to my hearts content. I did try and do some exercises, like taking a walk around the whole campground and swimming in the pool. I tried to not sit as much, and stand more, but I still ate like I would never see food again. I drank alcohol and soda. I basically had no water in my system the whole weekend. I'm surprised I don't have a kidney stone right now. Through it all, I vowed to start anew on Monday.

Monday rolled around, and I tried hard to get back on track, but I had soda and ate lunch out. I neglected water, and greeted sugar and caffeine like a friend I hadn't seen in years rather than a month. The pattern continued all the way through Saturday. My mind when it comes to food is ever rationalizing, and I viewed it as this was my vacation as much as it was his. Which is an excuse that only yields negative results. I stepped on the scale and gained back 4 pounds. So rather than being 14 pounds down, I'm back to 10 pounds. The weight loss was moving slow before this brief gorge on all the food, and now it's all but halted. As disappointed as I am in myself, I find myself more motivated to continue than anything.

It's a lot easier to restart today than I thought it would be. I was convinced that I would be miserable and hungry all day. That my body would reject the idea of life without sugar again. Instead, I find myself full and satisfied after eating. I find myself not just needing water, but wanting it instead. I'm not craving candy, but fruits and vegetables. I still have energy, and the general feeling of heaviness and unwell that creeped back up is starting to ebb a little. I look forward to when it's completely gone, and I'm back to feeling how I was about two weeks ago.

As I sit here with juice from the plum I was just eating all over me, I'm reminded of all the goals I have. Namely the 5k in just a few short months. But I also really want a manicure and pedicure, and to book my dream vacation. In order to do well and keep pace with my friend Gianna and my new friend Eva, I'll have to continue on a healthy lifestyle. If I want to ever see Iceland before I die, I have to lose the weight and become healthy.

I have one of the biggest support systems I've ever seen, and I'm grateful every day for you all. It's hard to be an overweight sister to a skinny brother, but I'm grateful that he doesn't judge me.And I understand that in life there will always be fumbles and people skinnier than I am. I also understand that those aren't excuses and I won't always do what is best for myself. I'll just have to cleanse myself of the negative decisions and repeat the positive ones, but at least I know I have people who will try and guide me back to the right path in a loving way. I hardly think about my future, and I prefer to live in the moment, but for the first time; I'm starting to view my future as a long one. Filled with my friends and family, but most importantly, my health. And I can't wait.

Here's me and my handsome brother, Michael:

Sweet thaaaanggg.

I have the world's biggest sweet tooth. It's a fact, don't bother challenging me on this, because you won't win. I have very childlike taste buds. I am always craving candy, milkshakes and ice cream; and when I go long periods of time without them I turn into a fussy baby.

Which is why when I stopped drinking soda, eating candy and drinking milkshakes, I was miserable for the  first week. I had a headache that eventually went away. I felt weak, and weepy. At 3 am on the first night, I was so ravenous that I seriously debated on whether or not I could sneak out and get a milkshake from McDonald's. I talked myself off a ledge, and just chugged a bottle of water and cried myself to sleep.

The next two days were worse. I felt like I was an extra on The Walking Dead. I walked slow but still found a way to stumble into things. I felt like I was in a bad Stephen King novel (you know the one) because I was stuck in a fog and I couldn't get out. I was snapping at everyone, and taking offense to everything people said to me. I had let myself get so addicted to sugar that three days without it felt like I was lifeless.

After a couple of days my body readjusted. My headache diminished, and my zombie like gait disappeared. I allowed myself 2 teaspoons of sugar and 2 teaspoons of creamer in my coffee each morning, so I could slowly wean myself off of sugar.

When I go into a store, my first thought isn't which candy I will buy, and when I am at a friend's house, I no longer reach for soda. I make sure I carry my water bottle with me wherever I go. After 12 years of insomnia and only sleeping an hour or two at night, I am able to sleep five or more. My body no longer misses sugar.

It was Melissa's birthday yesterday, and last week we had gone out with a few coworkers for dinner and then to her house for dessert. There is where I reunited with my fickle friend. Cake. Icebox cake. The best of all cakes, and I said I would allow myself a piece because after all this was a lifestyle change and I am going to have to learn to live with temptation and not go overboard. I had a piece, and after that, I sat staring longingly at it. Amy offered me another piece, and I couldn't resist. I rationalized that I had been so low on my calorie count all week that I was fine and I could have that second piece. I regretted it, and I vowed to never rationalize like that again. Everyone else could live their lives with one piece, so could I.

That was until yesterday. Our coworker had brought in a cake for Melissa, and she said it was low calorie and low fat. I swore up and down to myself that I would only allow myself one piece. But then I tasted it and I knew I wanted another piece. So the way I rationalized it to myself was that I had the smallest piece out of everyone and it wouldn't kill me to have another small piece. So I did. And then I had another small piece. I didn't even realize what I was doing at the time.

Three pieces of cake. I felt disgusting, and like everyone was staring at the fatty who had three pieces. (When in reality, my other coworkers had three as well.) I swore to myself never again.

And yeah, I might have had two pieces of chocolate pudding whipped cream pie last night for Melissa's birthday. But I didn't go back for more when everyone was asleep, or this morning before I left for work. Which is a big deal for me, because I normally would have.

I feel like a fussy baby today because of all the sugar I had yesterday, and the decreased amount of sugar today. But I have to remind myself that if I wanted to, I could have eaten that whole pie myself and I didn't. I might trip and fall, and eat too much cake, but I'll always get back on track. I love my body now, but I'm going to love my body much more once I'm healthier.

I have consulted my doctor, and all the nurses at my office, and they have all agreed that I am doing this the right way. My doctor let me know about the possible side effects and different ways to combat them. I'm trying to be as healthy as possible, and understand my body much more than I did before. My level of well being is increasing as the weight is decreasing, and I can't wait to see where I go from here.

Battle of the bathing suit.

I have always been confident, and mostly had high self esteem. Sometimes I'm too confident, and it all comes crashing down when I step into a bathing suit.

Naturally when I was younger, I had no problem running around in my bathing suit. I didn't understand why some of my family members or friend's family members covered up at the beach. My theory was that it was hot, I was hot, and the less clothes the better. (I'm pretty sure if I had grown up and stayed at a healthy weight I would have joined a nudist colony by now.) It didn't occur to me the reasons why they felt bad about their bodies. I never realized that they were any different than me. I was taught that people look different and that we shouldn't make them feel bad because they don't look like me. It has been a teaching that has stayed with me my whole life and I will never understand when people stoop to insulting someone else's weight.

For the first couple of months after I had moved to Florida, I still didn't have a problem running around in my bathing suit. It was summer and I was in God's waiting room equipped with its own personal sauna: the equator. As "Fall" arrived and school started, I hadn't made any friends so food became my friend. I felt shameful. I felt that if I were to go to a beach, and walk in my bathing suit that they would mistake me for a beached whale and try to push me off the shore into the water.

I heard the jokes in gym class, and I felt their stares. I didn't talk like them, I didn't grow up with them, and in some of their eyes, I wasn't one of them. Not all of my fellow students were like this, but enough to drown out the rest of them. But then something spectacular happened in the eighth grade, I had started making friends. I grew back into the person I was when I was in Connecticut. I had met my friends Megan and Casey that went from accquantices to my lifelines. I went to the beach with them, and although I was still afraid, I wore my bathing suit. I wore shorts with it, but it was a step in the right direction. They made me feel comfortable and accepted, and for that I'll never be able to thank them enough.

During my high school years, my circle of friends expanded, as did my waist line; but I didn't really care. I felt comfortable and happy and with my friends I knew I didn't have to feel ashamed. I found my niche in high school theatre and I had never felt more at home. While in acting, I had met a girl named Shaena. We immediately hit it off, and became close. Through her, and acting, I had met Danielle. We went to the beach together one day, and because of them, I had the courage to take my shorts off and just be in my bathing suit. It took that to finally learn to love myself completely and understand that everyone has flaws.

I still struggle with wearing a bathing suit. I still don't like the way my stomach looks in it, or my thighs, but thankfully I have Melissa, Marta and all my friends to reassure me of the parts that do look good in my bathing suit. They remind me that no one will mistake me for a whale, and try and push me home. I have Marta or Melissa or Pulito or Jason or Sarah or any of them to keep me sane when I'm having a mini-anxiety attack about the bathing suit. Without all of my friends, I would just be the girl on the beach wearing a pant suit.

One day, the battle of the bathing suit will come to an end, and I'll be able to wave my white flag in surrender. I'll be able to put it on without a second thought or a fight. Maybe one day I'll feel like the little girl again. No shame, just happy to be in the water. Until I do, I won't stop fighting.

Feel the burn.

Part of my job is going to a Agency and dropping off my bills to the ninth floor. I ride the beautifully mirrored elevator up, avoiding eye contact with the stranger in the reflection. I'm still wary of looking at myself in mirrors because I hardly recognize myself despite how long I've lived at this weight. I still view myself at the spirited young girl with barely any weight on her, and able to run without becoming tired.

After sitting in traffic for a half an hour, when normally it would take me 10 minutes, I arrived at the Agency with my bills. I entered the elevator, and pressed the nine button. I made it between the fourth floor and the fifth floor before the buzz of the fire alarm came screeching alerting me that this was not a test and that I would be dropped at the next floor and made to leave the building immediately. Thankfully it did stop at the fifth floor, and I joined the queue waiting to exit the building.

Outside there was a fire truck blocking my car so I couldn't even leave and come back. I hid myself under a shady tree, until I was told to move to the other side of the street. As I baked in the sun like a potato, finally they came down and gave us the all clear that we would be allowed to enter the building but the elevator was broken.

I went through the seven stages of grief again. Only this time, I felt better because I wasn't alone in my journey. There were plenty of other people to share in my pain. Plenty of other people to sweat like we're in a bad Richard Simmons work out tape with me. Then the overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia set in. Plenty of people. Too many people. I tend to be cripplingly claustrophobic, added with a healthy dose of hypochondria, and paranoia of all the ways that this could go wrong.

I started my voyage to the ninth floor behind the tiniest woman in the world. By the third floor I was ready to drop. I was hot, I was sweaty, and my thighs were burning. I pressed on for as long as I could, and by the seventh floor I was waving people on past me. I was dry heaving because of the exercise, the stench of body odor mixed with the suffocating heat. A few people laughed, and none stopped to make sure I was okay. Which I was glad about because I was on the verge of tears, and the last I wanted was to be coddled.

I finally made it to the ninth floor and I was pretty sure that this was the end. That I had walked my way to Heaven, and I'd soon be at the pearly gates. I half expected to see all the animals and people I've ever loved welcoming me home. All I saw the was the heavy breathing receptionist greeting me with the same tiny nod I gave her. I handed over my bills and headed on my way. Going down is always easier than going up.

I made it back to my office where the elevator is still broken. I waddled my way up to the third floor and honestly felt like I was never going to walk again. I collapsed on my chair and vowed to myself that I would lose all this weight and I would one day conquer those stairs.

My thighs are on fire, and I have a headache from my slow crawl up 12 flights in total, but I feel energized. Tonight I am going to a cookout at a friend's house, and then walking to the beach to watch fireworks. It's about 3 miles, and I'm a slow moving vessel but I will make it just fine. It's a lot easier to do this things now that I'm 13.5lbs down, and not hindered by grease and sugar coursing through my body.

I'm thinking of making myself shirt that says "I felt the burn and I survived". It's tiny workouts like this that make me feel better and happier that I am working towards a healthier lifestyle.

The body of Beyonce, with the mind of Eleanor Roosevelt.

Or as my friend Jason suggested, I should have a body like Eleanor Roosevelt with the mind of Beyonce. I will accept anything, as long I have something similar with the Queen B. 

I've never actually had a "thinspiration" or a body that I wanted to model my own after. I just figured that as long as I felt good, and still had curves, all would be right with the world.

To help me achieve my goals of doing well in the 5k, and looking like Beyonce, I wanted to start working out. After a delicious dinner of roasted peppers stuffed with cherry tomatoes, grill portabella mushrooms, garlic and feta (thank you Melissa!), I was going to go for a walk. I really was, but then it started to look like it was going to start raining and my friend Sarah was supposed to come over. So I said I would start tomorrow, and really felt like I would. 

After Sarah left, I had gone into my room and I felt disappointed in myself that I couldn't even take 15 minutes to walk to better myself and get readjusted back into working out. I felt defeated, and as if I had just ruined my whole week of hard work. Which is ridiculous, but it still spurred me into action. Earlier in the day, I had printed off a little calendar to help me. It's called Couch to 5K, and I was so excited to try it. The first day you start off with something like a 3 minute walk, 2 minute jog, 3 minute walk. It sounds ridiculously easy, even for me, and I was looking forward to trying it.

When I am feeling lazy, I am comparable to a sloth. And more often than not, I am feeling lazy. It didn't rain last night, I could have gotten started on the couch to 5k. The tag line of my book should read, "I'll do it tomorrow".

Last night, instead of feeling upset and defeated, I walked and jogged in my room. Possibly not as effective, but I still felt somewhat accomplished. I just kept walking back and forth across my floor, and then I jogged in place. I stretched, I did the little arm circles that you used to do in gym class. I attempted to do a lunge and almost got stuck in it, so I moved on to squats where I successfully did 25 squats. Sit ups and push ups are my arch nemesis, but I attempted to do them as well. After failing around on the ground like a dying fish, I decided I had accomplished enough and that I should probably go to bed. 

Even though I worked out in my small room, and didn't really do much, I felt much better about myself. With hard work and dedication, and small changes daily, it won't be long until I have a body like Beyonce, and I can start calling my house the Bey-hive.

Run Forest, Run.

I've decided that in December, I'm going back down to Florida to do the Dirty Girl Mud Run! My friend Gianna thought of me, and invited me to join her team, which I gladly accepted.

I am not coordinated. I am constantly tripping, falling and hurting myself in some way, I am not very good when it comes to physical exertion(see Stairway to Heaven), and the last time I did a 5k, I came in dead last. Behind an old woman, and a woman with a stroller.A security guard at one point was driving next to me to make sure I didn't pass out. I waved him on, but he told me he wouldn't leave my side. We really connected. I was breathing heavy; he was pretending not to notice. While I was busy planning out our wedding and the names of our children, he drove away. I figured he just had driven away to go pick up my engagement ring, and he'd be right back. Again, I'm pretty sure I was delirious from heat exhaustion and physical exertion.

I will never forget that day. I went to the 5k with one of my best friends, Danielle, her sister Alicia, and her mom Laurie as a spectator, about a week before I moved back to Connecticut. We got there, and signed in and started off the race together. We had all agreed that if one of us felt like we couldn't keep pace, we wouldn't be mad that the other had kept going. Danielle, Alicia and I had started off at the same pace and we were keeping it together.

Although my legs are the strongest part of my body, and one of the only parts of my body with little to no fat, I have no endurance in them. My shins ache, my thighs scream, and my knees sound like an old tree swaying in the wind because they're so creaky. 

Eventually, I told Danielle to go ahead because I needed to walk. I'm pretty sure I only jogged for 2 minutes, but I felt as if I was Forest Gump running across America. It was 10,000% humidity, and I was sweating like a sinner in church. I slowed to a walk, and watched all the runners and walkers pass me. I tried jogging again, to no avail. My back was on fire, and I was barely moving. I made it through the first mile, and I considered quitting. I could feel the shame rising and I decided it was a better idea not to. I continued on, and after a lot of people passing me, my security guard husband, and so much tripping that I almost face planted, I finished. 

Danielle, Alicia, and Laurie were waiting for me, and they congratulated me and told me how proud they were that I finished. I felt proud that I didn't give up on myself, and I had continued. I was just happy that my friend was waiting for me at the end, and I wasn't alone. I had a support system.

When I started this lifestyle change, I didn't have goals like this 5k. I just knew that I wanted to get fit, and feel better about myself. I know that I am beautiful at any weight, but I'm not healthy at this weight. I'm so glad that Gianna thought of me, and inspired me to kick it up a notch. I know that I'm probably going to be falling all over the place, but I'll have the support of every different size and beauty female around me, and I'm excited to even have the opportunity to do something like this.

I've researched online getting fit for an obstacle course, and I have a ways to go, but I'm motivated and I won't give up. I have 191 days to get ready, and I've decided that I will start just cardio training for the first 10 weeks with some weight lifting and then prepare myself for the obstacles. It won't be easy, but then again, all things worth it never are.

For those interested, the website is: www.godirtygirl.com

The most embarrassing day of my life.

I decided when I started this blog that I would be as open and as honest as I possibly could about my weight struggles, and my feelings before and during my weight loss journey. There have been many people that I have encountered that have no problem reminding me of my weight, regardless of whether or not they know. My own grandmother has told me that the dress I was wearing made me look like I had sausage casing on my rolls. I had two people within 20 minutes of each other either call me the fat chick, or a fat cunt. Just because I brushed it off, does not mean I have forgotten.

The one thing however, I cannot brush off is the day that I went to Six Flags and the pure self loathing I felt. I  had been so excited on the ride to the park. We were listening to 90s music, and I felt like a little kid. Giddy because I was going to a park, nervous because I hate roller coasters, but mostly I felt truly happy because I would be spending the day with my best friends. 

The first ride we went on was a little kid's ride. The one with the ship where it goes back and forth. I chose that ride because I am a fussy baby and I can't handle roller coasters. It was basically all (hot) dads and tiny children. I felt comfortable knowing that I wasn't going to plummet to my death.

We decided to venture out to try more roller coasters, and while my heart was beating like a drum line, I agreed to try it out. We waited in line, and finally after what felt like a lifetime, we reached the front. I tried getting into the ride, and closing myself in with immediate panic setting in. I was shaking like a leaf in the wind, and trying to hold back the hot tears that I could feel springing up in my eyes. Before the ride attendant could even reach me, I jumped out of the bucket and told my friends I would see them after the ride. I stood in the corner, and held back the sobs that were quickly rising in my chest. I would not let any one in the park see me cry. I would make them think that I had chosen to get off due to my fear, and not my weight. 

That was not the only ride I had tried to go on. After the second attempt at a roller coaster with the same results, as a group we decided to ride a water ride. It was hot, I was miserable, and I wanted some validation that I wasn't the most disgusting person in Six Flags.

We chose a ride with 6 seats in it, and a family of 3 joined us in the ride. Everyone had buckled, and my sausage fingers were still fumbling with the buckle when the ride attendant came over to check. I sat on my buckle to make it look like it had been fastened because I refused to be turned away again. The mother and son had spotted my predicament and could see how red my face was, and kept quiet. (I don't think they knew how much I appreciated that, and how I still fondly think of them.) We took off, and the whole time I kept thinking about falling out and being dragged under and what the headlines would read. I couldn't even enjoy myself because I was too terrified of dying. 

Finally the scariest ride of my life was over, and I was back on solid land; feeling no less defeated than I had before I went on the water ride. To the everlasting credit of my friends, they knew that I was ready to go and none of them put up a fight. They quietly suggested it, shut down any talk of how I was ruining their fun, and we made our way back to the parking lot. I don't know if I ever thanked them, or if they ever knew how much my heart swelled with love for them. But it did. And I thank them now.

This was the most embarrassing day of my life. The only people that know this story are the people that were there with me. To this day, they still maintain that I was able to ride each ride with them, and only talk about the good times we shared. I'll never forget their kindness, and their acceptance without judgement.

But the worst part of all this was not the fact that I couldn't ride anything at Six Flags, but it was the fact that even after this day I did not stop myself in my tracks and change. I allowed myself to put on more weight, and make more excuses as to the reason why I was eating. 

I do not tell this story to garner pity or remorse for me. I tell this story to hold me accountable, and to remember what I felt that day. And to remember that I never want to go back to that. I tell this story because it is a big part of me, whether or not I like it. The only thing I can do from here is press on, and realize that I am currently on the ride of my life and that there's no getting off. 

A sack of potatoes.

I've lost one pound more than what a sack of potatoes weighs. In two and a half weeks! I'm bursting at the seams, and pretty much shouting it from the rooftops. I've definitely yelled it down the hallway of my office, and at people in passing. I've been sure to bring it up at every social occasion that I can. It's like my new baby, that I can't stop bragging about, and that I don't think I'll ever stop doing.

I haven't really done much exercise other than the hike up and down the stairs. I also did go on a walk with Marta but I can't remember much considering I spotted a dog twice and I believe I said, "Oh I have to get my petting hand ready!" So, yeah, I only remember how sweet and adorable the puppy was.

I have cut out all sodas, all juices, all greasy food and all sugars(except for the ones found in fruits and things of the like). I'm eating minimal carbs, and low calories. I'm only drinking water, and I can honestly say I have never felt better in my life. I have had stomach issues my whole life, and I believed that they would never get better no matter what I ate; but I have now found that it is not the case. My stomach issues have all but disappeared.

But for as much as I'm doing to better myself, I am not alone in this. I never have been nor will I ever be. I have my beautiful, kind, and wonderful cheerleaders on my side to help me achieve my goals. For that I will be forever grateful. I can't imagine that there is a better support system in existence than the one that I have.

I keep talking about my goals, and rewards; and I don't think that there is a better time than now to post the rewards I have set for myself.

Rewards List:

10lbs: New shoes, betch! (Achieved as of 6/24!!)
20lbs: Treat yo'self 2013! Mani/pedi time!
30lbs: I pick things up and I put them down. Gym membership time!
40lbs: Change your hair, change your life! Haircut time!
50lbs: Plan a "staycation" and enjoy some R&R!
60lbs: Remember to help others. Plan a healthy dinner party for your friends!
70lbs: Hey pretty woman! Get yourself a red dress and go snag Richard Gere!
80lbs: Nobody puts baby in a corner! Dance classes! Patrick Swayze would have loved you.
90lbs: Shawty had them apple bottom jeans. New jeans time!
100lbs: Let's brag a bit! Go see your parents to show off!
110lbs: Nike Shocks? They've been running through your mind. (Pun intended.)
120lbs: Sports Illustrated: Swimsuit Edition called, they said, "Go buy yourself a new bathing suit"!
130lbs: The ghost of Julia Child said to get some cooking classes in.
140lbs: Only 53lbs to go! Plan another "staycation"!
150lbs: Helloooo, Skyrim. Buy yourself a new computer! You deserve it.
160lbs: Take the plunge! Plunge bras, that is!
170lbs: Almost there! Don't give up! Color your hair! Look cute, feel cute!
180lbs: Imagine you're on death row. What's the one meal you would want? Have that.
190lbs: Remember where you came from. Donate your clothes and buy more!
193lbs: YOU DID IT! Book your dream vacation!
193lbs and on: Don't get fat again.

It's a lot of weight, but I can do it. My weight wasn't gained in a day, a week, a month or a year. And I won't lose it in that short amount of time either.

I know where I came from, I just can't wait to see where I'm going.

Stairway to Heaven...

The elevator in my office building has been broken for 5 days, and the only option is to walk up to the third floor. This is not an unusual occurrence for this elevator; it was always going out, but on Friday it was as hot as the tenth ring of Hell. Now, for a person of normal weight it wouldn't be so bad; I am not a normal weight. 

The first day that it went out, I revolted. I went through the seven stages of grief:

I was in shock; it had just been working seven minutes ago. I had ridden down. This is not happening.

I felt guilty; had I caused the elevator to stop working? Was my weight too much for it to handle? I also felt pain, because deep down, I knew I'd soon have to take the trek up the stairs.

I was mad. This piece of crap elevator was always doing this. Why couldn't the landlord of the building stop being such a cheap ass and fix it? I offered money to the custodian of the building if he would give me a piggy back ride up the stairs.(He didn't accept. Maybe I should have offered him more than $4.00.)

I was entering the depression, reflection and loneliness stage. I stood in the lobby in front of the elevator and thought back on all the good times we shared. The multiple trips a day up and down. Where would I ever find a friend as good as this one?

I was starting to adjust to life without the elevator. I knew, I could make it through this somehow. My grief was lessening with each minute that passed.

I was reconstructing my life; I took off my shoes to lessen the pain of this trip.

Finally, I arrived at acceptance. I knew I had to do this, and there was no other choice. Thus began my journey to the third floor.

On the first day, I truly thought I was going to die in the stairwell. I debated on calling a priest to come and read me my last rights and calling my parents to tell them that I love them and where my secret stash of money is hidden.(I am not religious, and I have no secret stash of money, I was delirious from heat and physical exertion.) I finally reached the summit, as this was my Mount Everest, and I felt comatose. I stood on the final step for another minute, and finally I walked into the hallway where I was greeted with hot air and 15 doors until I reached my cool office. If I ever had to walk up those stairs again, I was going to quit my job. 

Then I received the bad news; the elevator would be broken for two weeks. Two weeks of up and down the stairs six times. Two weeks of wondering if this would be my last breath. Two weeks of pure hell.

But then something happened: the days have passed and I have gotten better at climbing the stairs. I'm not huffing and puffing and threatening to blow this house down anymore. I'm not crawling up the stairs, begging for piggy back rides or a chair I can sit on that takes me to the top. No, I am walking up them. I am defeating them. 

It's small victories like this that make me feel proud of myself, and make me want to commit to this lifestyle change. And who knows? Maybe once the elevator is fixed, I'll continue to walk up the stairs. But for now, it's enough to know that I'm able to walk up them and not feel as if I'm going to die.

Oh, hello.

A friend suggested that I start blogging my adventures through my lifestyle change and I decided that it would be a great idea.

I'm a dynamic, bubbly, sassy 24 year old animal and environment lover; who happens to be obese. I have been since I was 14 years old. I wasn't an overweight child, who grew into an even bigger adult. When I was a child, the only thing big about me was my personality and my imagination.

Growing up in southern Connecticut, my life consisted of playing. I would seek out my younger brother when I wanted to play cops and robbers, and when I wanted to feel mature and cool; I'd attempt to infiltrate my older sister's circle. When I wanted to be coddled and win at everything I did, I played with my mother or father. When I wanted to get down and dirty, I'd play wiffle ball with my Gram. My childhood was warm, and happy for the most part.

But that's not to say that I would have avoided being overweight had I stayed in Connecticut, and didn't move to Florida when I was 12. Most of my family is overweight; call it bad genes, blame it on us being Italian and loving food, call it what you want; we're overweight. I grew up seeing my family, and not thinking that being bigger was shameful. But we don't have to get into that.

All that needs to be said is that I'm fat, and I'm changing that.

I have goals, and rewards to go along with them when I reach those goals. Not if. When. Because for the first time in my life, I'm passionate about this. I have a lot of weight to lose, and so much more to gain; and I've never been more open to an experience like this.

I'll post my reward sheets next, along with a picture.