Really proud of myself. No, really. After quite the hiatus, I've managed to work out consistently (5x per week) over the past few weeks. My body is tightening and I can really see it. My posture has also improved. My head feels clearer. I'm sleeping better.
But I haven't lost much weight.
Oh yeah, and I've been eating so clean and so consciously, it's unreal. Yesterday, I actually struggled to meet my calorie goals and had to indulge in a banana-peanut butter-soy milk shake just to make sure I was taking in enough calories from protein. This isn't something I usually have a hard time with (obviously).
Still, the scale has moved a mere 2 pounds.
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| cartoon courtesy of: re-imaginelife.com |
I really hate the struggle between the logical and emotional lobes. I know for a fact that muscle weighs more than fat; that I've got a hell of a lot of fat to burn and turn. Still, there's just this irrational expectation that I should have lost an enormous amount of weight by now. I've been a good girl and I deserve a reward. If it's not a piece of cake, it had damn well better be 10 pounds. Why can't I get past the numbers and just be grateful for the gifts I've already received as a result of my efforts?
I know it will come but I just wanted to vent...partly because it seems to help whenever I put my unreasonable thoughts into words...partly because I'm really and truly upset in spite of myself.
At least I'm not eating to numb the pain...yet!
