The change back.

Sadly, what can be done can also be undone, sometimes.

About a year ago, I started feeling really, really burnt out. It was hard to make two meals -- one for my family, and a separate one for myself. But they didn't like what I ate, and I couldn't have what they liked. I mean, I guess I could, it's not as though I was throwing Mcdonald's on the table for them every night, but typically the fat/calorie content per serving of "their" meal was higher than mine. Sometimes by quite a bit.

It was hard to make myself go to my fitness classes, too. The kids hated it when I left, and I felt so torn. It was easier to just stay home than to deal with the guilt I felt when I peeled their little hands off my legs and closed the door on their tear-streaked faces. Even though I was gone for less than two hours, twice a week at that point, it was still too much for them.

The guilt got huge, and took over that small part of myself I had reclaimed. Around this time, my depression also started spiralling out of control. I didn't see it at the time, but in hindsight it was already happening.

I made it to probably half the classes in the fall (Sept.-Oct.) session, and exactly two in the Nov.-Dec. one. I didn't set foot in the studio again until this past Saturday.

I kept eating okay for a while, but then that fell to the wayside along with the exercise. The weight started creeping back on. A little bit here, a little bit there. Pretty soon my jeans felt tight, and I had to go up a size. Then another. As the numbers on the scale got bigger, so too did my clothing. That's where I'm at right now. Two sizes bigger than my smallest size, but thankfully also two sizes smaller than my biggest size. It's time to take a stand, and reclaim my body. If for no other reason than because I gave away my "fat" clothes, and I'm too cheap and too stubborn to go buy them all again. Wish me luck.