This week has made me think. Hard. I’m trying to lose weight. I am a grown woman. I am also a control freak. I like to do things that make me happy.
So why don’t I just lose weight?
There is so much behind that phrase. So many emotions for me. I have been paranoid about my body since I can remember – the numbers on the scale, on my jeans, on the charts at the doctors office. I remember asking one doctor to let me be weighed facing away from the scale. Another had to be begged not to tell me my weight. Ever. And each time the chart was laid out while they talked, I would purposefully turn myself so I couldn’t accidentally see it.
I almost hyperventilated at the thought of reading that number. Whatever it was. I was always too fat – even at my thinnest. I sat through appointments burning up with the dread of them saying something about my weight. My hands would get clammy and I would get a horrible stomach and headache from willing myself not to cry if they said what it was.
In high school anything into double digits of clothing meant I needed to punish myself by not eating. In college I ate because I was miserable.
Then I lived alone in a crappy apartment for 6 months. I worked a night shift and came home to a hamster. Sam was in Okinawa for 18 months. We were getting married. I ate rice with garlic and olive oil. That was it. Every night. I lost 20lbs in a month. I had to fit into a smaller size wedding dress – a 6 instead of an 8. That was all I cared about.
I threw up anything I ate besides the rice. I found this to be an easy way to indulge without guilt. I was exhausted, miserable, and slept all the time. And one time I caught sight of myself in the mirror and was so happy because I was thin. Finally. The throwing up kept going for a while. Then on and off – when I overate I would make myself puke. It was horrible and felt very control like – I was punishing myself for losing control and then I felt better.
I gained weight after that because we started drinking. A lot. And I found a picture of myself thin and didn’t get out of bed for a day. I was so upset that I just laid in the covers and sobbed.
Occasionally I’ll punish myself now my trying on all my old jeans. None fit. At all. So while taking them off, I berate myself over and over again. I can’t throw them out because they hang as reminders of how I failed.
I hated my body when it was thin. I hated it when it was porky. I hated it when I was first pregnant. I made my entire pregnancy about my weight – in my head I couldn’t gain more than 30lbs. Because that was wrong. And after? After I would stand in the shower and bawl because of what I looked like. I gained 32 so I failed and deserved to look horrible. As stupid as that sounds.
Why don’t I just lose weight? I don’t know. I don’t even know why I wrote this post. I just poured out so many memories I had forgotten that are all stirred up again. So many more I can’t put into words. How did I get like this? Why does every.single.day of my life revolve around my weight? Why is punishing myself for a natural act of eating something I feel ok about? Why can’t I just be happy with where I am?
Why is it that if I were to wake up 20lbs lighter tomorrow, I would still hate how I look? How is that possible?
I didn’t want to talk about this. But there it is.