I have thoroughly enjoyed my week-long hiatus, which consisted of birthday treats, a visit from Mamma Bear, a few Jacks and lots of computer games and books. I chewed through a popular trilogy in a day and a half, and it was the best time I’ve spent on my own in ages. (Dear lord, that sounded geeky) No work, no writing, no housework. Fabulous! I also felt like I needed the head space to reflect on a few things this last week.
The term ‘acceptance’ has been floating around in my brain a lot as I struggle to decide what it actually means to me at this moment in time. The dictionary defines it as ‘A person’s assent to the reality of a situation, recognising a process or condition (often a negative or uncomfortable situation) without attempting to change it or protest.’
Now, isn’t that interesting? I am very self-aware, and know that I am an all-or-nothing type. I consider myself to be a relatively accepting person. That is, in relation to other people. I tend to take people as they come and make room for reasoning of their beliefs and principles, and have found little use in trying to change people. However, when it comes to other matters I am the antithesis of acceptance. Rejection. Denial. Refusal. I’ve often thought of myself as a breathing contradiction, and these previous points just strengthen my case.
I like to be organised. I like to plan and be in control. I write lists. I don’t like surprises. Yet, I am prone to the most illogical bouts of spontaneity and throwing the plans out the window, and thoroughly enjoy them. I am a scientist who thrives on numbers, statistics and processes, yet finds joy and satisfaction in creative pursuits including writing, drawing and music. I’ve always been good at a lot of things, but never excellent at anything – the old ‘Jack of all trades’. At the risk of sounding big-headed, there are very few things that I’ve turned my hand to that I’ve been terrible at. I’m rubbish at being quiet, sleeping, sewing (I once stitched a pair of trousers to the jeans I was wearing trying to turn up the hems) and playing pool – that much I’ve learned in my 31 years. So the conflicts of my own personality continue on, and I need to make sense of it in my current situation.
I have accepted that my medical status is affecting my ability to lose weight. Does this mean I’ve accepted I won’t lose any weight until after my surgery? I don’t know. I’m confused. If I’ve accepted the second hypothesis, would I still be fighting with food? Would I still be going to Weight Watchers? Am I wasting my time? It sure feels like it. The constant back-and-forth is wearing me out, and weighing in is stressful. It’s the most horrible feeling in the world knowing you’ve done everything right and you might still put on weight. The one thing that fixes that for me is running, and I can’t do it.
I know that I cannot accept not being able to run because of it. Walking my dogs, I’ve conjured up all sorts of plans and tactics to allow me to run. Do it during the day so James doesn’t find out. Load up on painkillers before I go to minimise the searing pain in my abdomen. Run flat-out but only for 60 seconds. Try a walk/jog ‘scouts pace’. ANYTHING to let me go out and do it. Hell, if cutting off my left arm was an option I’d do it. (I’m left-handed, by the way) I don’t think I can accept getting bigger and bigger until all of this is over. Conversely, I also think that it doesn’t matter how big I get, because I know that once I’m back to full health the weight will slide off. I’ve considered starving myself. Living off fruit and liquids. Living on alcohol to block it all out. I’m pretty sure I’d make a good alcoholic, I’ve had plenty of practice!
The conflicting views are affecting far too much of my life at the moment, and spilling over and tarnishing everything else- it’s affecting my other circles. After a week of contemplation, I’m no clearer in my thoughts or opinions, and I don’t know what I should be doing with myself. Everyone knows that’s no use to me, I need to make a plan.