Why does everything seem to go wrong

One of my goals for 2016 is to take better care of myself. A big part of that is work-life balance, which is a thing I am failing at. I've been working 60-70 hours a week for about four weeks now. I don't know how people do this for longer than that. I literally feel like the walking dead. 

It's really hard to be emotionally stable when you are physically rundown. My sleep schedule is beyond off. I'm lucky if I get five hours a night and even then I find myself tossing and turning and waking up several times. I'm not capable of clear decision making and the mundane problems of daily living can make me anxious. 

There is problem with my furnace. Most people would calmly and rationally deal with it. But I'm not most people. I hung up on the repair people when they were unhelpful (and the information provided by Eversource unclear) and then I started crying and saying I should just sell my place. 

I know this is an extreme reaction. It would almost be better not to have that awareness. Because knowing you're overreacting while you are overreacting only makes you feel worse. 

It's hard not to feel like everything is going wrong. I feel like every year I hope the next year will be better. Eventually that has to be true, right? Eventually things have to get better, right?

That eureka moment.

My intention for my next post was to write about before and after pictures. I still intend to write about that. But I wanted to post an update. 

It looks like the Wellbutrin is helping. Things don't feel quite so dire all the time, though I still have those low moments. Those moments seem fewer and far between. 

I'm failing at work/life balance. I took vacation from my full time job and still worked 30 hours at my part time job. I've picked up a lot of extra hours. I worked every day for nine days. My sleep schedule is VERY off because of this. I'm looking forward to the post holiday season when I can get some semblance of normalcy back. 

I hit a pretty major fitness goal. I love deadlifting. There is something about picking up really heavy shit that is so therapeutic. My goal for next year is to be able to deadlift 300 pounds. I'm getting closer. My new personal record is 250. It was super heavy feeling; I couldn't hold it up for long; and I wound up with blood blisters. In short, it wasn't pretty. But I'm pretty ecstatic that I was able to do it. 

The other highlight was that I finally figured out what I want to be when I grow up. I had an "aha" moment while I was brushing my teeth where everything clicked and I realized what I was meant to do. I'm not going into details because there's nothing really set yet. But just having a plan has been a wonderful feeling. I probably wouldn't have figured things out if it wasn't for being in recovery. I'd be treading water, going nowhere, nearly drowning. Pre-recovery me was incapable of making decisions. So the fact I was able to make this one seems pretty huge. 

So that's pretty much all I've got. All, in all, last week was a pretty good week. There's a lot to be excited about. 

Love your before picture

When you get into fitness, the before and after photo is ubiquitous. People are always posting them and adding hashtags like #nevergoingback. And people love them. I love seeing people progress and grow and get stronger. It can be so inspiring. 

But there is a darker side to the before and after photo. I've written before about how I lost 100 pounds through diet and exercise and how the aftermath of that has messed with my head. It made me question things about myself before I lost weight. 

Yes, I have changed. I look different. I feel different. I am different. But at the same time, I'm not. I'm still many of the same things I was before. I still have the same interests and aspirations. 

Parts of me have changed. The outer shell is the most noticeable. But the outer shell is forever changing. I don't look the same now as I did when I was 10. I won't look the same when I'm 80. We get so caught up in the external that we forget about the stuff that really matters. 

This is probably one of the worst photos of me. I have no make-up on and my hair is blah and I had just come from allergy testing so I was itchy to boot. I was probably at my heaviest weight. Not long after this photo was taken, I started my fitness journey. 

So while there is a lot to hate about this photo, there are things to love. I'm holding my niece who is adorable and sassy. She was so sweet back then (the sassy side is a more recent development). But when I really look at this picture, I see someone on the verge. I see someone overwhelmed by the possibilities of life. I wouldn't be who I am today if I hadn't been the person in the photo. 

The person in the photo is smart and fun. She wants the world to be a better place and she wants to help make it better. She believes that all people have value and deserve to be treated with dignity. The outer shell may not fit traditional beauty standards. But the inner stuff? The inner stuff is beautiful. 

This is me at around my lowest weight. All the stuff that was great about the person in the before picture? All that stuff is still true. My values didn't change just because the outside did. And really, how can you love and accept who you are now if you don't love and accept who you were then? 

It's okay to not want to go back. But what are the reasons you don't want to go back? If your only reason is appearance, that is not a good enough reason. That is always going to change. I don't want to go back because the woman in the before photo was slowly killing herself. She had physical limitations. She wasn't healthy. She was living a life at risk for a multitude of illnesses. Who would want to go back to that? But she was also someone with potential and that potential is just starting to be realized. And that is something to love.  

F### Pierre

Ever since Thanksgiving week, I've taken to adding the hashtag #fuckpierre to my Instagram posts. It makes me smile when things are pretty crappy. 

Pierre is the embodiment of my struggles. Pierre is also the name of the guy that allegedly robbed me, about two weeks before Thanksgiving. Given everything that I've been dealing with, being robbed was obviously not a welcome event. I was pretty freaking upset and the depression and anxiety took hold the day I found out what had happened. I felt hopeless and powerless, unable to stop the bad things from happening. I cried pretty hard (though I cry pretty hard a lot lately so, there's that...)

And suddenly, something clicked in my head. Pierre took my things, sure. But I decided right then and there that Pierre would get nothing more from me. He wasn't going to take my self worth or  sense of  hope. And then I decided Pierre would symbolize everything that had gone wrong in my life. 

It may sound silly, but giving a name to my heartaches helped stop me from being bogged down by them. When something goes wrong, I can say, "Fuck off, Pierre! Not today!" It's crazy but it works. 

Plus, there is something inherently ridiculous in getting robbed by a man named Pierre. I keep picturing a tiny dude in stripes and a beret, holding a French baguette. That image makes me laugh. 

So, yeah, Pierre took physical things from me. But the stuff that really counts? It's not up for grabs.