We were in the dressing room and I was trying to hold myself together. Everything was fine in the morning. Everything was fine in the moments before I took my top off and was forced to look at myself in the mirror, practically naked. That is when my self esteem plummeted to zero and all I wanted to do was go running.
I am plagued with not being able to comprehend how in a moment like this, it’s not about body image or food or calories. How is not? How can it be about anything else? Everything was fine. Until it wasn’t, and the trigger was a mirror with my body’s reflection glaring back at me.
I don’t get it.
I believed the fat was there. It was there. It is there. It’s not my imagination. It really exists. It’s mortifying.
I’m not crazy if I think it’s crazy. What happens when I don’t think it’s crazy anymore?
It’s been a year. It’s been an entire year of all-consuming thoughts. This crept in last October and has not left. It ebbs and flows but it’s taking up most of my head space more often than not. It’s incredibly loud the majority of the time–I don’t know how I have been able to be so normal. If my thoughts turned into actions, and were physically accurate, I would weigh at least 20 pounds less. Is this how it’s supposed to be? Am I always going to think like this, this much? Is this what drives people crazy?
If I’m going to always be so concerned and have so much chaos over how much I weigh, it would be nice if I could at least reflect that in the actual number that I do weigh. It doesn’t feel right. I want to never think about this again, and therefore be fine with what I am, or else I want to continue worrying about it and have real results. The first option doesn’t even seem like a remote possibility. The second option seems so much easier, yet it’s apparently terribly difficult.
I think I basically just wrote: if I can’t be completely healthy, then I want to be completely sick.
And that, is. crazy.