A migraine.

I didn’t have a migraine, per say.

I refused the casino lights, the loud music, the alcohol. Things a migraine can’t handle.

But I couldn’t get out of bed,

so

please

don’t

hate

me.

2:10pm text: pleaseeeeee come

4:02pm text: do you think you’ll come?

4:50pm text: I wish you’d come, we all miss you. Please come hang out with us soon!

I am too big to come. This body isn’t allowed to take up space in a group of perfect bodies. I repeat, while trying to make sense of why my body isn’t moving. Get up. I can’t. My body is turning into a giant ball of lard, laying here for hours. Usually this makes me move. Usually these thoughts send me to the gym, running, walking, swimming, something. Instead, I feel trapped under 10 pounds of weighted blanket. Instead, self-hate slowly and steadily permeates my mind causing my body to sink like quicksand into my mattress.

We are watching “I’m Sorry” on Netflix, where the husband and wife banter is quick-witted and makes me laugh.

“That mom reminds me of you.”

I wish I was that witty!

“You used to be.”

Past tense.

I used to never miss a chance to celebrate anything. Now I find myself wishing I wasn’t included so the guilt filling up my body in layers of concrete wasn’t quite so heavy.

I’m already heavy enough.

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