Ugh. After all these years, I still hate gaining weight. It seeps into daily life (“my weight is up, my weight is up”.) Yes, it’s not like the old days when each pound brought tears, starvation, shame and terror, but it still niggles at the back of my mind.
Today, I left my house with my head up, make-up on, wearing a cute outfit – just like I always do. I remind myself constantly that no one notices 5 pounds, and if they did, they’d be weird.
I remind myself constantly that I’m not a number – I’m a woman with a heart and mind and many more important fish to fry (fry!) Worrying about a few pounds is stupid, not productive and helping no one. Pretty much, it’s just selfish and self-centered.
And I’m the only one who cares. My boyfriend doesn’t notice my weight at all and tells me I’m beautiful no matter what I weigh, no matter what I’m wearing, make-up or no make-up… But I don’t believe I’m beautiful. I think I’m funny looking in a sort of appealing way. At least I don’t think I’m hideously ugly anymore!
But the reason I always knew myself to be hideously ugly was my weight – I was the fat kid, mercilessly teased and taunted. My peers called my names. Adults harangued that I desperately needed to lose weight to be acceptable or attractive. When I finally did lose tons of weight, it felt like the world cheered.
No wonder I am where I am.