Warning: If you have ever had an eating disorder, there may be some triggers below.
I know it’s only a number but what I weigh has a profound effect on me. I also know that it wasn’t always this way. There was a time when I didn’t care. And then the Jackass came along and told me how fat I was. And I haven’t been able to get his voice out of my head since. I hate that he still holds this power over me. That when I hit 140 pounds, I instantly think that I am fat. Because I weighed 140 when I met him and he told me I was fat. Even though my stomach is relatively flat and my thighs are nice and strong. I am fat even though I can easily fit in a size 6 and should probably start wearing small shirts in lieu of medium.
So I go back to the gym but I try with everything I have to not start restricting foods because that’s when the bad stuff comes in. I need to always weigh 135 pounds. At 135 I am confident, happy, proud. At 135 I feel healthy and sure. But how I got there matters. If I am being smart about it, if I allow myself to get there slowly, I’m OK.
I can’t hit 130. That’s when I really go to a dark place. That’s when I wonder if I can make it to 129 or 128 and maybe if I ate less and went to the gym more I could even get down to 125 and how thin would I look then. That’s when I start to check things out in the mirror – see if my ribs are showing, my clavicle bone. Luckily, my pants start to sag so much that it looks ridiculous and someone says something to me and I bounce back.
I want to weigh 135.
I need to not care.