One more pound.
Nothing matters when the numbers are dropping.
Last summer, I weighed 120-122 and although I was running a fair amount, I wasn’t really engaging in disordered eating (that didn’t happen until October). On my wedding day, over 3 years ago, I weighed 120 pounds. I was pretty healthy then, too. It’s sad that I have now spent 11 months basically yo-yo dieting based on the current state of my mind, which escalated every time the husband left. In 11 months I weighed anywhere from 111 to 128.5. That is not ok.
It is very, very sad.
And yet…when I step on the scale and see a number less than the last time, I am elated. I am immediately high. I am stronger and invincible. I am somehow a better person. I have won the will power game.
I need food to function. I need food to live. I need food to be productive. I don’t need to weigh any less. That number doesn’t mean anything.
That number means everything.