Doesn't sound pretty, does it. However, this perfectly describes the past year of my life. Eyes shut tight with my face all scrunched up, fingers in my ears and my mouth singing, "LALALALALALALALA!"
See, the thing is, I love food. I mean, I really love food. It nourishes me. It calms me. It's my friend. I have this thing where I isolate myself from all of my friends and family, tell myself I have no friends, and then wonder why I feel so alone. (Yeah. Bipolar isn't fun.) Wanna know who is there? Who is always there? Food. When I'm lonely, hurt, or whatever other negative emotion you can throw in, food is there to be my friend.
*I'm sure there is plenty in that above paragraph to pick apart. Especially if you're the type that likes to pick people apart.*
The thing is, not all friends are created equal. There are the great friends who encourage you to do better. Who know that you don't have to settle for the mediocrity in your life. There are also the friends that pull you down and want to see you revel in the muckiness of life. So it is with food.
There is the food that lifts you up to good health and the food that tears you down to disease. Just like our dysfunction can cause us to choose bad friends, our (my) dysfunction can cause us (me) to choose bad food. What this all boils down to, dear readers, is that I've been choosing bad friends. If you've read my previous blog posts, which it's been ages since I've posted (Yeah. Sorry about that.), you know that I have diabetes. I was diagnosed last April. If you want the skinny (haha) on that, then you can go back and readthis.
I'm sure you know where this going. I haven't wanted to deal with this. Dealing with the ins and outs of bipolar everyday is bad enough. Adding ANOTHER major disease is just plain cruel. At least it is to me. I've finally reached the point, though, where I'm ready to deal. Accept? No. I hate it. I can't even describe how much I hate it. I can't keep on like this, though. I don't want to be someone who dies from diabetes (my great grandma), or be blind (my mom), develop Alzheimer's (my mom) have limb(s) amputated (a couple of friends). I was already making plans to start eating right. Planning as in bookmarking recipes, making grocery lists, purging the house of bad food. Then I read a statistic today that caused me to sit and and take notice. A diabetes diagnosis reduces life expectancy by years. TWENTY. YEARS. I'm 34. That makes me take notice. I don't want to die young. I want to sit on a rocker on our front porch with my hubby Steve when we're old and gray. I want my great grandchildren to know who I am. Twenty years? That puts a huge a damper on my plans. I have to change. I can't keep on this path. This isn't even about being fat anymore. (OK. It is but it's no longer the main focus.) This is about me doing my best and not settling for that mediocrity.
I know this isn't going to be easy. I've known that for a long time. Now? I'm ready to face it head on. Expect more blog posts to come with the how's Ima gonna do eet!
Until then!
Amy
