I have a cold. Being sick almost always triggers me. Consuming less, opting out of going out, eating only healthy things; the things that happen naturally when I’m sick are also the things that I do when I’m trying to lose weight. It is the perfect excuse to unravel. Plus, it’s January, and I have an amazing record of coming undone in the midst of winter.
The holidays happened. I ate all the things. I never had to run to a restaurant bathroom stall, reduced to tears, because of what I was about to eat/was in the middle of eating/had just eaten. In fact, I didn’t obsessively do anything ED-related.
However, since I’ve been back, I have been POSITIVE I must weigh the most I have ever weighed. Despite the fact that all my clothes still fit and I still buckle my belt to the same hole, I was sure of it.
The scale is the absolute most triggering thing for me. I did NOT step on it throughout the holidays–it’s been over a month. But I’m sick. And triggered. So I stepped on the scale this morning, ready to unravel. Ready to see the highest number to date, and ready to use being sick as an excuse to spiral.
My adult weight, purely due to disordered eating, has fluctuated a range of exactly 25 pounds. According to BMI standards, at no point have I ever been severely underweight or even close to being overweight–but rest assured, at the height of the 25 pounds, I felt so uncomfortable. I knew I had royally screwed my metabolism up.
For the past month, I’ve experimented with letting go of all the numbers. Right before my birthday, I finally just thought I might as well go in head first and truly, truly try to leave this (ED) behind. I ate what I wanted, when I wanted, tried really hard not to look at nutrition info, ate pretty much every fear food, exercised when I felt like it…you get the point.
Triggered me figured this experiment had gotten out of control and needed to be put to a jarring stop.
BUT GUESS WHAT!
I weigh 13 pounds more than my lowest weight and 12 pounds less than my highest. I didn’t gain ANY weight. I think I’ve finally reached a set-point weight; a weight that my body generally stays at. I don’t feel like I need to lose weight (at least the usual overwhelming urge I get whenever I step on the scale and see any number).
I’m so excited that I don’t feel like a complete mess right now. Science worked. I trusted my body and it did exactly what it’s supposed to do.
I don’t remember the last time I felt like this. It’s been way too long since I have been able to be content with my weight and despite the way it probably looks through my writing (I tend to write more often in moments of despair), the past month has been up. I feel freedom around the corner.