Quitter. Loser. Failure.
Those are words I've used to describe myself since I was about 11 years old. Puberty sucks, right?
Well, here I am 13 years later - still using the same words. Negative Nancy over here.
Realistically, I know deep down that I am not those words. Those words are not meant for me.
I am not a quitter.
I am not a loser.
I am not a failure.
My story is mostly unwritten. I'll be 24 next month, still not even halfway to 50.
There is so much I have experienced, but there is still so much more life to live for me.
I am perservering.
I am a survivor.
I am successful.
When I was a child, someone I trusted sexually molested me.
I've had trust issues ever since. My sense of self was rooted on mistreatment.
When I was 12, I cut up my left arm pretty bad. On purpose.
The little girl went across the road and not down the river. I messed up my attempt.
So in that regard, I did fail. But failure was a beautiful thing for me.
Middle school wasn't easy. High school was better. I dealt with my pain in other ways.
When I was 14, I threw myself into cutting calories and working out at high intensity everyday.
I was the fittest I had ever been in my life. But I was a monster.
My relationships suffered because losing weight was the only thing I cared about.
If I didn't get to work out, I was a terror to everyone around me.
If I went to a birthday party or holiday gathering, I got upset if there were desserts.
If I met up with friends, I wouldn't eat. I would watch them and silently pass judgement.
Eventually, I stopped that way of thinking. I started focusing on my studies.
I went to college classes in high school. I worked my butt off.
Volunteered at my local hospital and the town theater.
Graduated with honors and a 4.0 GPA.
My freshman year of college was great for me. I met wonderful people. I took care of myself.
I fell in love. He moved. I followed him.
On my 20th birthday, I found out I was pregnant. We had been having relationship problems.
They were 100x worse while I was carrying his child.
I carried my son for 40 weeks and 2 days. He was breech and I had to have a c-section.
I love my son, but his birth was terrifying, dramatic, and exhausting.
I had been depressed during pregnancy and I was depressed after my son came into the world.
My partner and I didn't know how to be parents. We didn't even know how to love each other.
My partner's mother passed away 3 months after my son was born.
The relationship that was already suffering became broken. We grew even further apart.
I felt like I couldn't please my partner. I felt like a failure for being a young mother.
I felt like an awful mother. I felt like I couldn't bond properly with my son.
I turned to food. My highest weight was 236. I am 5' 6".
We fought everyday. We tore each other down. I hated him and myself. I felt trapped.
When my son was 6 months old, I left his father. I moved back home with my parents.
We went to court and decided on shared parenting.
I continued to finish my college education online. I worked part time at a retail store.
I spent a lot of time alone. I spent a lot of time with my best friend.
I lost 30 pounds within a few months of being back home.
But I started drinking every weekend. I looked for love at bars. I was broken.
I kept working. I kept raising my son. I made slow, gradual changes.
I started working up the ladder at the store. Got promoted several times. Earned raises.
I stopped going out every weekend. I spent more time with my family.
I graduated with a 3.7 GPA. I didn't go to the ceremony because I didn't know one person.
When I was 23, I was raped by someone I thought I had wanted to date.
I was totally broken. Stopped taking care of myself.
The retail store where I worked closed down.
I felt lost. Confused. Life was so stressful.
My family and friends really kept me going. They pushed me.
I would look into my son's eyes and feel his arms around my neck and knew I had to keep going.
I eventually found a job working for the county.
I kept looking for love. It had broken me many times, but I couldn't give up entirely.
December 2016, I made a serious committment to my health.
By February, I had lost 20 pounds, a couple dress sizes, and gained muscle definition.
I was strong. I was beautiful. I was confident.
I met the love of my life. He's a single dad with two kids. Full custody.
It's hard putting two families together. It's hard building a relationship upon that.
We've been together only 3 months, but packed so much into that little amount of time.
I've not been so focused on my weight. Which is good and bad.
We cook meals for each other. We eat out. But we don't stress about it.
I've recently started working out again and he's fully supportive.
He tells me everyday that he loves my body.
He called me after a workout the other day just to tell me that he's proud of me.
Life has been a crazy ride.
But I'm ready for the fight.
I have quit. I've quit hating myself. I've quit drowning my sorrows in alcohol.
I am a loser...of weight, of hurt feelings, of negative energy.
I have failed. Relationships. Diets. You name it.
But I'm in a good place and I can't wait to continue this journey.