“I wish you knew what you looked like. I wish you could see how sexy you are. Do you have any idea you were the most attractive female in the room last night?”
I couldn’t bring myself to put on my swimsuit yesterday.
Of course it’s not really about this. It’s not really about weight, fat, physical appearance. Though, for a second, those comments lift my self-esteem, but they are quickly obliterated with your husband has to say that. I was the absolute worst to myself this weekend. I ate most meals, didn’t make a ton of exceptions, didn’t purge. But my self-talk was only a minute away from suffocating me.
I am brutal.
Hours and hours of:
How can you even look at yourself you’ve gotten so fat.
Your thighs look like pure cottage cheese. You need liposuction.
Your stomach is so disgusting. If anyone saw it they’d vomit.
You are so fucking lazy. You need to be running and at the gym with every free minute.
You can’t manage your weight, society thinks you are gross and ugly, and you are so stop thinking you’re allowed to eat.
Everyone is going to wonder what happened to you when they see you next, you’ve gotten so big.
You have nothing to contribute.
Lose weight or die.
Figure out how to be done, you are a huge mistake for everyone.
I combat the brutal honesty with … nothing right now because I can’t find energy to take down what I believe about myself.