overcoming addiction (or at least trying to)

It’s been about a month or so since being diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes. Once I got past the anger toward myself for letting my body, my system get to the point where I could get diagnosed with diabetes, I started to put that energy into … MYSELF.

The past month has been quite interesting.

It started out so. fucking. hard: Going from consuming literally whatever the hell I wanted, whenever the hell I wanted, to 1200 calories a day was.. fucking hard.

But what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, eh?

A month later and I’m down 25 pounds. Not bad.

some of the food i’ve been enjoying

 

I feel really damn good… alive… energized. (I’m even taking about 6K steps a day, hoping to get up to 10K a day.)

I feel like this is it for me.

I feel like I’ve finally come to terms and accepted that yes, I have a problem with food (much like some may have with alcohol or drugs– yes, MUCH LIKE THAT!!) and it’s up to me to change this problem.

I feel like I’ve finally accepted that it’s okay to feel a variety of ways and NOT turn to food. It’s okay. I’ll be okay without that crutch.

It’s only been a month. That’s not too horribly long.

But.

It’s long enough to consider it a giant step toward succeeding.

I simply have no other alternative.

 

sickening sweet

It’s been a long time coming, but I made the decision a couple months back that it was time to really and truly treat myself better…to take care of me.

I finally made a doctor’s appointment for a physical and blood work several weeks ago and was told by said doctor what I already knew: I’m incredibly fat and need to change things. So I vowed to do just that. I started logging all foods that entered my system via My Fitness Pal (highly recommend, by the way). I was doing really well and was seeing a difference on the scale, too.

Then I got a call from the doctor’s office that I needed to go back into the office to discuss the blood test results. I suspected the outcome and was soon spot on in my thoughts:

I have diabetes.

When I was pregnant five years ago, I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes (GD). I was pissed off when I first discovered this, but once I learned more about GD and that it truly was the fault of my body’s system and not because I was old or fat, I accepted it and did all I needed to do to ensure my baby doll wasn’t born with diabetes. She wasn’t.

I was told then that because I got GD during pregnancy, chances were much greater that I’d get diabetes later in life.

I didn’t think they meant five fucking years later.

Again, upon learning of the diagnosis, I was pissed. But this time, instead of learning it’s the fault of my body’s system, I learned it was the fault of … ME.

The years I’ve spent consuming whatever the fuck I wanted caught up to me.

The thing that really upsets me about all this besides the fact that I did this to myself is that I’m not 80. I’m 41 (42 on Saturday). Forty fucking one. And I have diabetes. I have diabetes because of the shit food I’ve consumed most of my life. Because of the inactive lifestyle I’ve led most of my life. Because of ME.

***

It’s only been a couple of weeks since the diagnosis, but I’ve made significant changes that I feel I have to live with forever and always, amen.

I don’t want to die.

I don’t want to have a foot or leg cut off for not giving a shit about my blood sugar levels.

***

The good thing about being proactive about all of this is that I can change this diagnosis. I can. And I will! There’s just no other way around it. I have to eat natural foods- low in calorie, low in carbs. I cannot have anymore sweets. I just can’t do it.

The time has finally come to be good to me and that’s exactly what’s happening from herein out. Period, end of story.

But not end of me.