My Rollercoaster.

In the interest of full disclosure and because I tend to live my life like an open book, I feel like I need to put this out there for everyone to read, understand, and help motivate me and hold me accountable.

I'm struggling.  Seven (almost eight) months into this journey and I've hit my first major roadblock.  It's not like anything life-altering happened.  In fact, quite the opposite.  Nothing happened.  And maybe I wasn't prepared for that.  Maybe I'm suffering from a little bit of let down.

The last seven months have felt like the beginning of a roller coaster.  You know what I mean... the car starts slowly climbing that huge hill.  Each foot higher you go, the more the anticipation builds.  You climb closer towards the peak, your stomach flipping with a mixture of fear and excitement as the big moment draws nearer.

Except on my rollercoaster, the one in my head that started on the day of my surgery, there was nothing at the top of that giant climb. 

I don't know what I was expecting.  I didn't even realize I was on the rollercoaster until I got to the top and realized all that build up resulted in a let down.

Since Christmas, I have fallen off the proverbial wagon.  I hate using that cliche, but it's accurate.  My restriction was good, but I ate around my band and little by little I got away from all the things that have made me so successful the past seven months.  I stopped drinking my water.  I  stopped eating my protein.  I snacked.  I grazed.  I got re-addicted to sugar.  And I made a million excuses.  The biggest of which was the severely twisted, "I've lost 75 pounds, I deserve a little treat."  Yup, the ol' Fat Girl standby.  I'm sad, so I deserve a pint of ice cream.  I'm stressed, so I deserve a bag of potato chips.  I've been so successful, I deserve a break from the "diet".  I forgot the one cardinal rule of bandster-hood....  

This is NOT a DIET.  It is a LIFESTYLE!!

I'm ashamed to admit that I've gained weight, real tangible weight, for the first time since my surgery.  After a lowest low of 223 lbs, the scale this morning read 229.  I almost vomited when I saw that number.  It felt like a punch in the gut.  I cried.  And then I did what all fat girls do: I rewarded my pain with food (chocolate caramel popcorn, specifically).  That six pound gain has hurt more emotionally than when I saw the scale read 297.7 lbs., my heaviest recorded weight.  Six little pounds and I feel like my roller coaster car rounded the peak and dropped straight down to the ground, smashing into a million pieces below.

Everyday, all day long, people tell me how great I look, how good I'm doing.  And for the first time in seven months, I don't beam with pride at their compliments.  Sure, I smile and say Thank You.  But what I really want to do is scream, "I'm a failure!  Don't commend me for failing!"  Am I being melodramatic?  Probably.  Are there worse (much worse) things I could be going through right now?  Yes.  But right now, today, I feel more lost and insecure and pathetic than I felt at 300 lbs. 

I have a fill scheduled for tomorrow.  Yes, I actually do need a fill.  For the last two weeks, my restriction (even with band-friendly foods) is almost totally gone.  I feel like something amazing needs to happen.  Like a lightning bolt from heaven needs to come down and strike the motivation and optimism back into me and make me wake up and take control again. 

I really do have a flair for the dramatic, don't I?