Winter Blues

It might be that I’m incapable of happiness.

Take this weight loss, for instance. From my last official weigh-in of 164.0, I am down 87.0 pounds since last June. I have dropped 34.6% of my body weight, and I am comfortably in a size 6 jean and a size 8 pant. All my sweaters are size small, and every physical activity I do is easier. This morning, DS’s nanny asked me how much further I had to go, because, according to her, I looked ‘perfect’.

I think that the nanny says this because she knew me when I was Gargantu-Woman, and so now I look small in comparison. But small doesn’t mean done, or fit, or finished, or anything that describes my current state of being. I still want to lose, and I’m unhappy that it might be over, whether I like it or not. Ever since I declared my goal weight at WW, my loss has stalled: sputtered to the point that my body is acting like I’m close to the end. I’m not ready to be finished. I can see the trouble spots on my body, and I don’t look anywhere near ‘perfect’. The idea that I would be forced to stop before I was done-truly done, too, not ‘I want to be skinnier than everyone at Vogue’ done, negates the large part of the loss so far.

I was unhappy as a fat person. I was angry and cranky all the time, and my body responded with refusals to do anything exerting or taxing, to save my strength for walking from the couch to the refrigerator. Eighty-seven pounds later, I’m still unhappy. Fatness exacerbated my unhappiness, certainly, but thinness hasn’t solved it. My life isn’t better because I’m thinner. I’m thinner because I’m thinner, and nothing else.

Work is on my mind, too. It’s going well, and I’m still enjoying most of it, most of the time. I’m way too busy and sometimes I feel isolated because my manager has no interest in what I’m doing day to day. For the most part, I’m okay with that. I have worked alone for most of my career. I like working with others, but I trust myself best with tasks, and so I’m pretty comfortable in a Universe of One. But some days, like when I’m wearing jeans instead of dress clothes, and I’m overlooked in the hallways, it feels like the Fat Girl has come back. I’m invisible again, and this island I inhabit has no basis of reality here at the office. It’s a lonely job, and I am a lonely person in it.

My boss doesn’t talk about absorbing me as an employee anymore. There’s good and bad to that. I make a lot more money as a consultant, even when all my time off is unpaid. At the same time, though, I want to be part of something real and permanent, and I want to be able to take a day off for mental health or to go swimming with DS, or to spend some times with those lovely people in Florida, without having to rework my budget to make sure I have enough to pay the heat bill.

Life isn’t fair, and I know that. I don’t expect life to be fair. What I do expect is that I’d be okay about what’s happening, and that now at least, in middle age, I would have some sort of inner peace that allows me to roll with what’s coming at me. Well, the only thing that’s rolling is my adrenaline, and the only things at peace are those that live far, far from my reach.

I keep waiting for things to settle down. When I tell people what’s going on in my life, the invariable comment is, ‘wow! Things sure have changed with you.’ There’s always something big and heavy and medieval that stands between me and calm. Divorce, house hunting, move-outs, move-ins, fights and restraining orders, new love, weight loss, autism, diagnostic screenings, endless medical appointments, public school, private school, and now a wedding that I’ve always wanted, but that grinds at me with its incessant bleed-me-dry thirst for time and money.

In the mean time, I’m not getting enough sleep, I’m not getting any exercise, and I’m sharply aware that either one of those things will rip the sails out of a weight loss, because the body thinks it’s under attack and will store up until the seas return to normal. When I factor in both, there is no surprise that I’m as low as a winter sky.

But you know what? I could be tired all the time and broke all the time, and even living amongst the mess that inhabits my house as Howard and I attempt to blend 2 independent households into 1 location that doesn’t really stretch to fit us together. I could manage it all, if I had some happiness around what’s going on. I’m not miserable or blanched in defeat. I’m just dissatisfied. I could be thinner, my house could be bigger, I could earn more money than I do, DS could be happy in school next year, regardless of where he goes, my wedding dress will somehow materialize, and then it’ll all become normal.

How I long for ordinary.

So, okay, let’s address the obvious point here. Happiness is a state of mind. I’ll spare us all the beatitudes about wanting what you’ve got and living in the moment and being satisfied with less and all that. I’m not a materialistic person anyway, and I’m wary of physical things, because they make it harder to move and they clutter up the house. Maybe it’s true, and happiness is a state of mind—but it’s not a state of mine.

It’s not just me now, either, because Howard has been sniping at me for the last 2 days, and this morning, when I mentioned that maybe I’m finished losing weight, he actually rolled his eyes at me. I know that misery is contagious, and while I don’t care to have company in this little macabre carnival, it’s encouraging at least to know that it’s not all in my head, or at least if it is, I’m not the only one feeling it.

I wish I were a smoker. Now would be a good time to go stand outside and stare at the approaching tornado (yep, tornadoes in Chicago in February. Ain’t global warming grand?) and mull over what’s brewing inside my skull. As it is, though, I have business, and busy-ness, tugging at my sleeve. Maybe it’s enough that I can vent it all here and leave it at that. Maybe it’s okay that there’s no solution other than simply feeling better, or deciding to feel better, and maybe that’s what will happen. Or maybe it’s okay that I’m not happy. Maybe we’re not meant to be happy so much as content, or satisfied, or simply wrapped up in all the ‘other plans’ that make up our lives. Maybe.

I think I’ll try that thing where I smile even though I don’t feel like it, and see if I can trick my brain into thinking I’m happy. It’s a temporary fix and it won’t last, but I think I might be all right with a little deceptive, ‘faux’ sunshine. It’s been a long time since I remember anything other than ‘mostly cloudy’ in the forecast.

Thanks for listening.