I remember when I was going to the gym 4-5 times a week.
I was addicted to running on the elliptical and a familiar face in the weight room.
The first time I was able to run 10K on the elliptical, I realized something: it's impossible to be drowning in depression while exercising.
I didn't measure my progress in pounds lost, but by distance, time, and sets. I measured my progress in how I felt not in my clothing, but how I felt in my skin.
And then it happened.
I was at a concert and some jackass decided to wrap his arms around my waist because he was falling, and he pulled me down. About 7 people landed on me. I landed hard on the awkwardly-shaped electrical conduit.
I had always had back problems (dating back to high school) but this was the straw that broke my back, or rather pushed the discs out of whack. Apparently I had inherited the degenerative disc disorder from my mom.
The doctors said that if I wanted to avoid a 4-level spinal fusion (removing the 3 discs) that I wasn't allowed to run/bike, lift weights, or do anything with torque/twisting. Basically I was left with modified yoga and swimming.
It wasn't long before the depression came back.
I know how it started: I used to have a scheduled week. I had something to pull me from day to day. I had a commitment to myself. I could look in the mirror at myself and sense the changes that were happening. And I was proud that for once in my life I was taking responsibility for my body.
I deeply resent how some people think that fat people are lazy. Everyone has a different story. But when people give me shit about being fat, I ask them how they would keep fit if they weren't allowed to run/bike, lift weights, or do anything with torque/twisting. If they say "put down the twinkies," I invite them to look in my kitchen and see what food I eat.
Ugh, my dear readers... I wish I could have continued the trajectory I was on. I'd be my goal weight by now. I am mourning the loss of the person I was trying to be.