The Trainer

I'm back. Just like South Park. Not that I would know anything about that. I digress.

At this time last year, I was 215 lbs and I felt really good about my weight loss. Then the holidays happened and I never recovered. I am now 240 lbs. I have decided that meaningful weight loss will not happen for me without some help. I considered weight loss surgery and medical weight loss options, but these things are not covered by my insurance and out of pocket they are very expensive.

So, I have chosen to use all of my monthly allowance to employ a personal trainer. Yesterday was my initial visit with her. I thought that I was going into the gym with a good attitude. I am here to make changes. I am enthusiastic. I refuse to whine about the whole thing like the contestants on a certain weight loss reality show.

But I am a self-deprecating person. And I am averse to insincerity. I am not going to act positive if what I am really feeling is anything but. That's part of what got me here in the first place.

No, I'm not upset about my dad dying at all. I got over it a long time ago. Before it happened. I'm fine. Really. I'm just going to go make out with my much older boyfriend after I eat these 5 Little Debbie cakes. kthxbai
Because that approach worked so well. I think it's better to feel what I am feeling when I am feeling it and to work through it in the best way I can. So, when she asked me "Are you nervous about getting measured?" I said, "No, I am well aware of the problem." She asked me what problem and I motioned to my body. This resulted in a lecture on how she does not tolerate negativity. Fine. But just because we are not calling my obesity a problem doesn't make it any less of one.

Then there was the fitness test, which in hindsight I think I did admirably on. But in the moment, when my muscles were hurting and my heart was pumping, I felt like the biggest failure in the world. I hated myself for being in pain after such a seemingly easy task. At which point I cried. And she wanted to talk. And how do you even begin to explain to someone you just met

Look, I hate myself for a number of reasons, many of which have nothing to do with my body. I hate myself for being easy when I shouldn't have been. I hate myself for looking for love in all the wrong places. I hate myself for stopping every time something got hard. I hate myself for trying to eat away my problems, but I'm sorry, at least food doesn't talk back. I hate myself for not knowing how to achieve this on my own and for letting things get so out of hand in the first place. Then there's all this deep seated psychological stuff that makes me so afraid to fail that I am afraid to even try. And, also, daddy issues.

?

You don't. So I just motioned to my head and said that it was self talk. Or something. I don't know. If I talk when I'm crying it just gets worse. This is not a good thing when it comes to communication. This whole discourse resulted in her putting a kabash on crying. Not helpful. But I don't guess I can be too mad. I am basically paying her to tell me these things. I think that it would be more helpful to just get it out though.

Then there was the epiphany of the day. It's really hard to explain how I got there, but I'm guessing that through garden path of my brain I got from "too fat to be sexy" to "your need to be sexy comes from your daddy issues" to "Duran Duran will never love you because you are fat." Which is a really irrational thought, but what is mental illness, if not one irrational thought after another?

But thankfully, I read an article the other day that talked about Simon LeBon's daughters being overweight. And I already knew that Nick Rhodes' daughter was less than willowy. And then it came to me: FATHERS DO NOT WANT TO FUCK THEIR DAUGHTERS. When I had that realization, I just wanted to scream it over and over. It was very motivating. (I did not, because I do not care to look like a crazy person.)

Simon and Nick love their daughters no matter what size they are. A father's love should be unconditional. It should not matter to a father whether or not his daughter is sexually desirable. Therefore, being found sexually desirable by men (husband or otherwise) does not equate to the love and acceptance I crave. And Duran Duran would love me, if they knew me. I am lovable.

And even as I wrote that, I kind of wanted to cry. It's hard for me to believe that I am lovable. I don't understand lovable. I only understand fuckable. Which I know that I also am not. Meanwhile, apparently my ersatz father figures are now Simon LeBon and Nick Rhodes. One could do worse. And Lou Reed. Always, always, always.

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