You step on the scale first thing in the morning, like you do most mornings, and it reads 2.5lbs more than you expected.
This makes it much harder to fight the demons in your head later trying to keep you from going to BodyPump. So you skip the class. You work. And work some more. You face a few headache-inducing tasks, but you drudge through them.
But skipping BodyPump makes it much easier to listen to the demons encouraging you to eat that chocolate cake for breakfast. And for lunch. So you do.
And you eat other things. And suddenly you lose motivation to get dressed or fix your hair or shower.
You drudge through your workday, oozing the bad food choices out of your pores. You cross off tasks but the day just keeps getting grayer.
You drudge through your domestic chores but you have no idea why. You’re now in robot mode.
Work. Laundry. Cake. Work. Laundry. Chips. Work. Laundry. Cry.
You take a break to pay some bills. You realize one medical bill is almost $3,000 more than you expected. You spend hours crying on the phone only to find out that suddenly you may be financially responsible for surgery that A) Your doctor recommended and B) Changed your life for the better. This is where the idea of speaking to someone like a Private Medical Insurance specialist could come in handy, especially if you don’t know what to do next. When it comes to finances, it can be a lot for anyone to deal with on their own, but knowing you have someone by your side could make all the difference.
But because of the gray day and the bad food choices and the drudgery of work/laundry/tears…you are not equipped to process this new stress. So you cry some more.
You finally make it to school pick-up time. You’re wearing sunglasses because you’ve reached that point where you just can’t stop crying about the gray of the day. The bad food choices. The extra pounds on the scale. The medical bills. The laundry. The drudgery of the day just brings tears.
The kids get in the car and feed off all of that negative energy to produce more. They fight. They whine. They sass. You demand some quiet time at home and yet they still keep going. The fighting. The whining. The sassing.
So you yell. And while you’re yelling part of you thinks it’s making you feel better to yell. The other part of you thinks it’s making you feel worse. Because now, on top of the pounds and the food and the medical bills…you’re a shitty Mom.
You send them to their room and you lay in bed and you cry. And cry some more.
You put the pillows over your head and think about how nice it would be if your insurance paid for therapy so that you’d have someone to talk to about days like this. But hell, your insurance isn’t even paying for the medical procedures you needed, much less your psychological ones. You’re just screwed.
And you curl up in bed and just pray you can get out of the funk before your husband gets home.