My brain is spinning. Or splitting. Or maybe just tired. I’m not hungry. I didn’t run today. My legs hurt. My ego hurts.

You’ve gained weight.

This is not shocking news. I already know this. When I entered therapy I weighed 110 pounds. It continued to drop before it came to a screeching halt at 103 and I have gained steadily ever since.

Why don’t you weigh 103 anymore? What happened to that? Now you’re heavy and fat and busting out of your jeans. You’re way too big. You need to fix this, right now. Right now, right now, right now. 

You’ve gained weight.

The eating disorder took those words out of context and ran with them. They are still repeating. I can’t stop it. It just keeps happening. When it initially happened I wanted to cry. Because it feels like I’m being yelled at and have failed. That voice is so harsh. You can’t do anything right! And without compassion. You are a royal fucking failure. That voice that took those words and put them on repeat is playing a game called euphoric recall and today I am sorely losing this game. That voice is winning and remembering how good 103 felt. How good each number from 125 down to 103 felt. I don’t even have a scale right now, but the idea of knowing eventually that maybe I lost weight is just enough. Of course there wasn’t anything else good about it. Nothing. It made everything else worse. But that part seems like merely an idea, not real. What was real is that I was happier with a number that merely puts a numerical value to my mass against gravity.

You’ve gained weight.

You’ve gained weight.

You’ve gained weight.

Fix it.

 

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