I am a grudge holder. Like, big time. It’s not something that makes me proud. For instance, I don’t like that my husband is usually the first person to apologize if we have an argument just because of my own stubbornness. If you do something to hurt one of my friends or family members? I’ll more than likely dislike you forever.
It also turns out that I’m super great at holding a grudge against myself, too.
This morning I had a little breakdown. My husband told me that he’s noticed my self-criticism has increased lately. I didn’t even know that was possible. But he’s right.
I’m down nearly 20 pounds. I’m glad I’m finally back on track after years of wandering somewhere near those tracks. But I’m not doing so well with forgiving myself for those years of wanderlust. Yes, what’s important is that I’m moving forward. Yes, I’m proud that I have stuck to it for a couple of months. Yes, I feel a little better about myself. I think. Sometimes I’m not sure.
I’m finding that I have to forgive myself every single day. I have to push aside that voice that says “Well, what if you’d continued and THEN lost 20 more pounds? You’d be almost to your goal.” I see a picture from my social media memories that reminds me of how far I’d gotten—and how far I’ve fallen. Some days that’s harder than others. This week has been that way.
The mirror. Photos. They are my worst enemies. I feel good about myself at the gym. I feel good that I’ve stuck to my points. Then I see a picture or catch a glimpse of myself in that God-forsaken studio mirror at the Y. And I’m back to beating myself up.
I know in my heart that what matters is now. But I’d be lying if I said that the “what ifs?” don’t creep in every day in some way. So if you ask me if I feel good about where I am—well, compared to two months ago? Sure. Compared to three years ago? Nope.
Pride and self-loathing—it’s a constant battle in my life. And some days the wrong one wins.