My dad says; “You and your brother were the perfect kids.”
He is comparing us to the rest of the extended family. And I want to tell him how today I ate less than 500 calories total, and I ran 4 miles, walked the dog, and lifted weights, so I am basically at 0. Actually, since I am not bed ridden, I’m in the red. Of course I don’t really want to tell him this, because that makes me not perfect. Even though that is precisely what I am trying to do: be more perfect.
I will never ever ever tell him because I shouldn’t have to be a head case in order to lose weight. I should just automatically already be … perfect. And I should just eat healthy foods. And I should just exercise.
I should be running 50 miles a week and winning races and look like how a runner should look like.
My husband asks; “What did you have for dinner?” And I reply, “eggs. And salsa. And Broccoli.” That doesn’t sound abnormal. Except it was egg whites, and the whole dinner was maybe 200 calories. And I did not tell him what breakfast and lunch were–an apple at each. This conversation is over–it never really began. I didn’t want him to pry anyway, because I already promised myself I wasn’t going to tell anyone.
I broke every [recovery] goal I had for myself this week. I broke them all with a wicked vengeance and finished it all off with a big fuck you. I stepped on the scale yesterday and said fuck everything that is stopping me from losing weight. I’m not telling anyone anything. I. Am. Done.
Of course by writing this I’ve broken that also. Apparently I can’t keep any goals for myself; good, bad, or otherwise.
I do not know what tomorrow will be like. However, if today is any indication, I will spend the entire day completely engrossed in convincing myself I don’t need to be doing anything that isn’t leading towards dropping pounds.