Fighting with myself -- I wonder who will win?

Once upon a time, some three years or so ago, I weighed about 70 lbs. less than I do now. I was working out five to seven times a week for an hour or more. I wore a size 10-12. Energy coursed through me. Clothes fit. Candy, cakes, cookies, fattening food were not enticing. Apples, greens and lean meats were my daily fare. I smoked a pack or pack and a half a day. I enjoyed being this "me".

Hello, breast cancer. Buh-bye abdominal muscle and left breast. Hello, Tamoxifen. Then Lexapro and Lunesta. Buh-bye uterus, ovaries, fallopian tubes, cervix. Buh-bye cigarettes. Hello, Propranolol (for essential tremors). Buh-bye thyroid as my body decides to kill that (instead of the cancer cells? WTF?) Hello, hypothyroidism. Buh-bye metabolism. Hello, levothyroxine. Hello, that old 70 lbs. come back again.

Clothes don't fit. Fell back into eating candy, cookies and even cake (which I never really cared that much for in the first place.) Wearing size 18-22 depending on top or bottom. Work out? Not really.

So. Now, with the encouragement of my daughter - who addresses the issue of my weight every time we communicate, reminding me that she would feel like an orphan if I died (ouch!), insisting on a diet of whole food only (little or no meat, no garbage food), inquiries into my exercise regimen - I am rejoining the original fight that got me to smaller size clothing in the first place. What a battle it is! I had cigarettes to lean on last time. My metabolism wasn't rocked by menopause and hypothyroidism. I wasn't spending days out of almost every month a some doctor's office. There are no "negotiations" of "well, I'll have this now but I'll work out " because I know I won't go work out at all.

Whew. Now it's a battle just to get out of bed some mornings because my head feels like it belongs on someone else's body (and the jury is out on whether that someone else has a pulse.) When I do get up and go, I find my energy got up and left within a few hours on some days. Making those good food choices over the convenience of garbage food is more difficult because I don't have the cigarettes to kill my taste altogether so I don't care what the food tastes like. My body is so flabby and huge and awkward that working out is not only not an addictive pleasure but a downright chore. The battle is constant, painful, frustrating -- and totally with myself.

Will the old me, the one I liked being years ago, win? No. She's gone with all the missing parts and hormones. Will the current me, the one on all the drugs, large size clothes, fatigue, win? No. She'll lose everything because you just can't keep on going that way. The me that is going to win is the me that comes out of this healthier, at a good weight, off the drugs that are not necessary for my survival, without cigarettes, in menopause, with hypothyroidism - and still with a good sense of humor. Yeah! That's the me I want to win!

Cheer me on, eh?

I am my Mom

I'm kidding. But when I look in the mirror at what my body has become (huge) and the shaking of my hands and head some mornings (I don't actually quite know why but it might have something to do with my farqed metabolism messing with my farqed familial tremors) -- well, there is some commonality.

My daughter noted to me with concern that my sister is starting to treat me like she did my Mom when Mom was sick and dependent. I've noticed that. But what my daughter doesn't seem to realize is that my sister, for reasons I still don't quite understand, tries to take care of the entire world. All the time. Even her clients. Maybe I could get her to visit my psychologist to find out why she does this. I like to believe that I help my sister out now and then. That would make us co-dependent, right? Is that really a bad thing between sisters who have been through as much as we have together?

My Mom was really creative. She could draw, paint, sew, knit, she was a Girl Scout leader, she could teach, she could sculpt (and got like a B+ on a sculpture in college because the idiot teacher thought she wasn't the one who created the sculpture she submitted for her final grade. What the idiot teacher did not know, was the snakes rising out of stone wall and facing each other - awesome, really, I'll have to put a picture of up soon - was actually supposed to be praying hands!) She had talent. She just wasn't as obsessive as I was/am about it. And, like I said before, she was a hell of a business woman.

I'm creative, too. But I'd rather be creating all the time and could really care less about business. I make enough money to support my crafting and keep an eye out for those I love and care about. That's good 'nuff for me. My Mom loved business, loved being a Realtor. If Parkinson's disease hadn't destroyed her life, she'd still be at now at the age of 75.

So, I'm not really my Mom. I'm working with an endocrinologist now to get my thyroid hormones stabilized since Hashimoto's disease (gotta tell ya, if you have to have a disease, that's a cool name for it, right?) is slowly killing my thyroid and metabolism. Eyeing the workout equipment and bringing it closer to where I spend most of my time. Changing my diet back to a more vegetarian one (that, incidentally, I really loved. Not sure why I stopped.)

So, daughter. Hang in there. Mama's on her way back. And she loves you very much.

And Mama ain't her Mom. :)