It’s a very sad and scary thing to step on a scale and have it send me tumbling. I understand now why my doctor has told me not to do it, that my recovery from depression has to be more important to me than a number on a scale. But I needed to know – I’ve seen pictures of myself lately where I only recognised myself by what I was wearing. How did that happen? Fool that I am I was sure that the number would just be knowledge.
I know now that I am not strong enough to have it not matter. And that, for today, my intelligence, my accomplishments, my talents, my sharp wit and my tender heart are nothing to me - I’d trade it all to change that number back again. It’s pathetic – a true waste – how much energy I spend adjusting my heaving girth, sitting or standing or laying to free my mind from its relentless noticing. How I direct STG to hold me just so, pretending that maybe he still sees the healthy girl he met. That I sit at my desk trying to distract myself from the repulsive feeling of my sagging gut stealing across my lap. That I hold my chin at a particular angle to keep from feeling my neck collapse on itself. That I pretend the tingling in my ankles is from something other than trapped fat and fluid.
It’s a scary feeling that the only thing that fills the gaping emptiness is more. Cookies. Donut. Ice cream. Salt. Fat. Sugar. All while the person inside this spreading body continues to shrink. I know it has to stop. That I am more, and that even my body is not as disgusting as I imagine it.
But, for today, I am sad and scared and so so sorry. I wish I had appreciated my healthy body enough to hold on to it. I wish I knew how to turn things around. I don’t need advice. I don’t need more knowledge. I just ... need to strop. And I’m terrified that I can’t.