I had a dream.

Not a particularly profound one, in the great big Dr. King scheme of things, but it really shook me up.

I should probably set the scene.

On Monday, I spent the afternoon cooking. I made a chicken soup from the chicken that was leftover from the previous days roast, and I also made a beef stew as we had company coming for dinner on Tuesday (and besides, I always think a stew tastes better the day after you cooked it). Oh and I also attempted to make bubble and squeak from the veg, also leftover from the roast.

So anyways, I cooked these lovely dishes and then sat down and thought “You know what? I don’t feel like eating ANY of the meals I have just made”. So my husband and I did the naughty thing and ordered a takeaway, and 30 minutes later, a bucket of fried chicken turned up on my doorstep.

I feel I should emphasize at this point, Sausage was fast asleep in bed when we indulged ourselves in our illicit chicken eating. I may treat my own body like shit, but I try not to poison my kid too.

So, that night, I had lots of vivid, and some fairly disturbing dreams, and this one in particular was the worst.

In the dream, I was happily sitting on my sofa, eating my fried chicken, when I looked down and noticed that my outer body had gone see through, but I could see inside my veins and arteries, and could see the chicken that I was eating being turned straight into oozing fat, which was coarsing through and coating my vascular system.

Now, I may only be one year into my psychology degree, but I think I can fairly accurately assess that this was an anxious/guilty response to my earlier indulgence, but it raised a lot if internal questions.

I’ve been overweight, on and off, for most of my life. I’ve never been a particularly active person and I love my food. I love food on any occasion, to cheer me up, to celebrate, to pass the time, all of the usual ‘bad-relationship-with-food’ cliches you can think of. And I know I’m fat, I know I’ve gone up 4 dress sizes in four years. I’m guessing I would not be diabetic now if I had looked after myself during and after my pregnancy. I know that my weight causes me many mental and physical issues.

So why, then, can’t I just put down the pie, get off my arse and do something about it?

I often look at other fat people and think “Wow, they must be so stupid if they don’t realise that greedy+lazy=heavy”. But, hey, I’m not stupid, and I still can’t make the connection.

I think the biggest fears for me are the changes that I will have to make. I won’t be able to sit and eat a pint of ice cream in the evenings, I won’t be able to spend my days being sedentary. I’ll have to give up my precious food crutches and move around.

But why is this so scary, when the results will be so worth it?

I always say “Oh, I don’t make excuses for my weight, I’m just greedy and lazy”…but in saying this, am I not just making different excuses? By saying greedy and lazy, I’m still quantifying my behaviour, just in a different way.

All I know is, something’s got to give, because I want to ensure that I’m the best Mum I can be to Sausage, and I want to have as much time on this planet to enjoy being her Mum as possible.

*Goes and dusts off the gym shoes and Zumba DVD*