This is pretty much a big rant. You’ve been warned.

It all started when my brother decided last week that the house he lives at must be worked on. My parents and I discussed this briefly and somehow I became the horrible one for suggesting that if my parents were paying for repairs, it should be done on their timeline. They felt rushed, I felt rushed, we both didn’t know why he couldn’t push it out a week if the contractor told us to start when we were ready. But they were mad at me for not being gung ho.

That’s how I became the horrible one. With the race being that weekend, I really didn’t want 2 people and 2 more dogs and moving furniture to be part of the mix.

It happened anyway. We discussed it Monday and on Tuesday, I spent my afternoon driving out and moving boxes and books and directing heavier furniture to clear three rooms worth of stuff with others.

Tuesday night, I readied a space for 2 extra bodies and 2 dogs who are apprehensive of change.

Wednesday evening, I come home and find out my SIL is sick and my brother recently had a stomach bug.

Thursday I get chills, discomfort, and a fever at work and leave at lunch.

Friday I don’t feel better and take the day off to rest so I can be ready for the race on Saturday.

Saturday comes. I’ve spent half my night in the restroom. I have to fold my cards and tell the crew I can’t be there for the event.

All because my timeline doesn’t matter. Because, you know, I haven’t been working on this event for the whole year and meeting Saturday mornings planning this. So it was a bigger inconvenience for my brother than me.

I don’t think so. He also denies my being sick has to do with him or his wife. I think the fact we all had the same symptoms, touched the same surfaces, and were under the same household suffices as enough evidence to that.

So no race, no free time, no workouts, no eating good foods. This week was full of disappointment. I bawled my eyes out Friday night knowing I wasn’t getting better, and then Saturday morning, when the reality sunk in, that I wouldn’t get to enjoy the fruits of my labor. Two vacation days gone, one year of work to not see it in action, and feeling terrible both physically and emotionally. That was this past week.

I’m finally back to eating normal food although I fear coffee would still be a bad idea for my tummy at this point. ‘Hoping to hit the gym Friday and get back into the groove.

Life sucks sometimes.

If I could look at something and determine I’ve come a long way, it would be Saturday evening. I was able to tackle anxiety head on during an attack. I don’t feel as powerless now.

My boyfriend’s family hosts a collective birthday party every few months that celebrates a month or two of birthdays and they’ve included me in their bunch for February/March. This happened last year and went without a hitch. But this year, I had an anxiety episode that was part nervousness and part triggered. I don’t understand why I’ve had them more frequently after a nice long cessation except for the fact I don’t have my own space anymore and it’s harder to decompress. I realize now that decompressing is important for me and I need to make the time to do it even when the house is a rotating door of visitors and house guests.

But anyways…my other trigger was time. I wasn’t exactly running late until my episode started, but the fear of being late set me off. It isn’t rational, but anxiety isn’t rational. When I’m under an anxiety attack, time is this weird morphing thing. I feel like *I* am moving a mile a minute but that it takes me a thousand times longer to get a task done. It’s like that fear of danger but with nowhere to hide and you’re stuck between fight or flight. My episode started at 3:30 and I needed to be at dinner by 5 a few towns over. I realized that wasn’t happening. I made sure everyone knew I wasn’t going to make the dinner after all and would be there for the party. I couldn’t get myself to eat though, so by 6 I was shaking as all I had was coffee and a light breakfast. I made myself shower, got dressed, and pep talked myself into driving. I knew I was stable enough to drive but my nerves were not okay. My heart rate was elevated, I had chest pain, and the inside of my arms were randomly surging with pain, like a dull ache and then someone reaching in and was pulling my veins out. I stopped by the nearest drive through and ordered a sandwich and made myself eat it in the parking lot. That seemed to help with some of the internal shaking. But when I’m in anxiety mode, it’s like there is no saliva in my mouth. So it was a series of birdish bites coupled with many sips of soda with a lump to swallow. There was no enjoyment in my food. I concentrated on driving to my boyfriend’s place and deep breathed all the way there.

My boyfriend greeted me and I dropped all the presents off and ran to the bathroom for a quick decompress. I told myself that sometimes I just need to stay home but if I stayed home my attack would just continue and I needed to take this head on so I could calm down. I came out and tried to be cordial but who knows if I was or not. Josh said I looked aggravated and I told him I needed time. I think he misread my shaking for lack of food and didn’t understand I was having an episode. I couldn’t really relate or participate in conversations around me so I just sat down amongst it. Finally, I was able to clear my head enough to contribute a word here or there. About a half hour later, I felt like myself again.

I ended up enjoying the party even though it started out rough. I don’t know what everyone thought of my odd behavior but I’m so glad they acted cool around me and didn’t press. I need that sense of normal when I can’t feel normal.

I was chatting with a friend who self-proclaimed “hates people.” She was telling me about how nervous being in social situations makes her which is weird because she’s very energetic, spirited and quickly warms up to others. But that’s the thing with social anxiety – you don’t know who has it. It’s not about being a shy person or fitting a certain stereotype – it just is.

I don’t think that my solution this time would work too often but I’m glad I didn’t banish myself and I fought against everything and made it. I was able to ameliorate the problem this round. I won.

This weight loss question repeatedly comes through my head:

What if I lost it all the first time?

What if I never struggled with losing? What if, as everyone claims, weight loss is just ‘calories in and calories out’ and nothing more? What if I willed myself to drop the weight and did it in one go?  What if the last ten years I would have shopped in the “regular” sizes and removed all the setbacks I reasoned were due to weight?

But it’s never that damn easy. Ever. It’s not just stupid calories standing in my way. I’ve TRIED the starve it out method. I’ve – in teenage desperation – PRAYED for God to give me an eating disorder that results in weight loss. I’ve tried frantically to somehow magically jam my fingers in my throat in a way that would cause me to vomit. I’ve curled into fetal position crying on holidays when a relative insists it’s now or never and that I’m a beautiful person except from the neck down. I’ve denied outings with friends because they are beach or poolside or may be an activity that my fat potentially can’t handle. I’ve picked the healthy meals and watched others eat carelessly without the consequence like it would have on my body.

I dare anyone to say to my face I haven’t tried. The fact is unsuccessful weight loss does not mean someone isn’t trying. And if people wouldn’t tell someone who was underweight because of an eating disorder “just eat more calories,” why is it okay to shove the line “just eat less” in an overweight person’s face? I’m not saying that everyone who is overweight got there because of overeating or an eating disorder. But in most cases, it’s a gradual gain despite the worst assumptions out there. Overweight and obese people are often shown as lazy or gluttonous. People don’t usually see the emotional or physical stress the weight has on the body, they only want people to calorie restrict and sweat their asses off. Literally.

This is my thorn in the flesh. This is my struggle that I will have to deal with my entire life. And even if I lose it all now, it took years to mentally get to this point.

In retrospect, I am GLAD I didn’t lose it all the first time.

I’ve learned a lot about myself in the meantime. I’ve broken down a lot of walls and conquered a lot of fears. I’ve built confidence in my body image. I’m grateful that God spared me from getting what I selfishly wanted and I never dealt with anorexia or bulimia. I’ve had people compliment me on kindness, style, personality and grace…while being over 250 pounds. I have a boyfriend that loves me and accepts me as a whole: quirks, fat, and all. I’ve learned to shut out negative comments even if they still hurt me. I’ve learned that this is the only body I get so no matter what weight, I need to treat it well. I’ve learned about nutrition and health so it’s not just restricting calories, it’s a lifestyle that helps me make healthful choices.

Most importantly, I’ve learned this weight loss journey is for me. No one else.

It’s not to make my parents proud. It’s not to make someone love me more. It’s not to conform with society’s standards of femininity and beauty. It’s not to prove to the world anything. It’s for me. And before this renaissance, it wasn’t for the right reasons. It’s because I can love myself right now that I see this chapter of weight loss as a healthy one.

You see, in the last decade, I may have put on more pounds, but I lost a lot of insecurities and emotional weight. That was my first step all along…

I know that if and when I get to goal weight, I’ll finally see the same person in mirror. Not a person I wanted to be, but the person I am, just with less weight to carry. And that’s exactly what I want – not to lose myself in the process, just the physical and emotional weight. Because the Laura minus 80 or more pounds is still Laura. And she’s been Laura all along.

Have you decided what you plan to do with your last name if you marry?

I remember how “rebellious” it was to keep your last name growing up and now I don’t see it as a big deal. It’s a personal choice and people shouldn’t read anything into it. In the last few years, a friend of mine decided to keep her last name for professional reasons. She married right before graduating and it is just easier bigger picture. She loves her husband dearly and there is no negativity to her not changing her last name. On the contrary, I don’t feel that it makes one lesser to take on their husband’s last name. Or combine them. You are a unit now, decide as a unit what’s best for your family…

My brother and I are the ONLY TWO carriers of our last name for our ancestry line for the current generation. Our relatives have married and taken their husband’s name and so that makes my brother the last one if I change my name.

I plan on keeping my maiden name by adding it to my middle name for this very reason. It is the way I want to honor our line.