It was the week before finals. I sat in the university library and hogged a long table with books and pens and notes. I had studied for the past five hours and scoffed down some fries and mozzarella sticks for my dinner. I’d be in the library another three hours that first day of preparation, but I’d be eating junk, cramming my head, and spitting out papers for the next five days. On that fourth night (fries with extra salt and lots of ketchup and crazy cheesy pizza) my stomach turned. I felt so sick. Just the smell of the food made me nauseous.
It was around this time that I realized how freaking messed up my life style had become. Just a few months ago my thighs were firm and tight. On my walk to the bathroom they felt soft and weak. Not only that, but I felt heavier, a heaviness I couldn’t blame on the endless hours of studying. My face was (& still is) flaky, dull, lifeless. I have suffered from cystic hormonal acne for years, and it flared worse than it did after giving up on antibiotics over the summer. I all around felt like crap and I realized, woah, I’ve been feeling like this for a while. I had been ignoring the signs for weeks. I sat back down and reflected on the past few months.
Holy shit. The past few months. What the hell had I done the past few months. Well, I’ll tell you what. I went out. A lot. Like, sometimes four days a week. I drank. A lot. Like black out drunk, like three out of those four days a week. I ate pizza on those nights, not just one slice, but two. Sometimes I’d order fries on the side. I’d stopped working out because my hang overs were too much. On top of it all, my depression came back in full swing. I guess that shouldn’t be shocking. Alcohol consumption to that extent can do that. Except, I hadn’t learned that yet.
I have big plans for my life, you know? Dreams, goals, things that cannot be accomplished unless I’m healthy, strong, and content with myself. Growing up watching shows with strong female leads like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I’ve always wanted to be physically strong. With a father gone at 50, I have to readjust my life. My genes don’t determine my fate – I do. It’s time to get my shit together now, while I’m young, while I have the energy, while I have time to save myself from regret. Blacking out three times a week for four or five weeks is not normal. It’s not healthy. In my case, I know it’s a sign of emotional baggage, baggage that can be better dealt with in a better and healthy way.
Listen, this isn’t a blog telling you what’s right and what’s not, what cures this, what cures that. No, it’s a way of keeping myself in check because dammit, no matter what I say I need a reality check. Establishing a healthy life style is f*cking hard. It’s no joke. It takes effort, determination, consistency, things that I’m not exactly great at. But here I am. I’m going to do it. Because I deserve it, because the people I love damn right deserve a better version of myself, to help them, to love them, to flat out be there for them. Because, let’s face it, I don’t want to die at 50, and who the hell doesn’t want to be strong and fit? And if those rumors are true that fitness and healthy eating can be part of a natural cure for depression? Seems like something worth trying out.
I’ve gotta run though (pun totally intended). It’s late and Gilmore Girls is calling my name (speaking of people who don’t have healthy life styles…).
The Little Fit Sis