Weight, Weight Don’t Tell Me!

Weight, Weight Don’t Tell Me!

I’m an idiot and I totally deserve how I’m physically feeling right now. It’s almost like I unconsciously willed myself to it. Funny how the world works, eh?

Weight, Weight Don’t Tell Me!

Over the last year one of my very best friends has been on an inspiring weight loss journey. As in close to 100 pounds. Diet and exercise. I follow a few other friends who are also right there with her (or beyond.) Diet, HARD WORK and exercise.

On Instagram I went back to stroll through a feed of a beautiful, smart, young woman who I caught up with this weekend who has regained her health, over 100 pounds gone. As I went back through her timeline, I started to feel so, so happy for her…she has her whole life ahead of her and with all the hard work, it will make a huge difference when she is my age, 15-18 years from now.

I also really started to remember how much I hate myself. A lot. In fact so much as I type out these words I’m holding back the tears coming. Loathe, despise HATE myself for not caring enough about my own body—all my life. And as these thoughts effortlessly came through my mind, I got up and said FUCK EVERYTHING and went to the pantry anyhow, who cares if I eat half a bag of Double Stuff Oreos at 10:27 pm? Why does it matter?

I bypassed the Oreos, which frankly, I’m shocked I allowed myself to bring home in the first place, if I don’t keep crap in the house, I don’t eat crap (then the only crap I’m guilty of is constant fast food, you don’t have to get out of the car to feel bad about yourself.)

Instead I grabbed the bag of chips. The 1/4th of the bag that is left from what I ate already the last few days. Again, why did I buy them? My grocery list said tortilla chips. I came home with the Buy Two Get Three Free three bags of tortilla chips and two bags of potato chips. Along with a small carton of Bison Bacon Dip, which I bought because I HAD A SUPER COUPON. Again, I’m usually better than this.

Not my best moment. But one I’ve been familiar with all my life, it’s a comfortable feeling…and hey, it’s a holiday weekend, all those bags of chips are for a party, right? HA. Yep. Just like those two chicken sandwiches along with TWO fries, not one, because that makes it look like they are both for you and there’s a chance it looks like the other is for someone else when you double the order right? Ha. Take a fat look in the bloated face mirror of reality idiot…

I’m not fooling anyone.

Anyhow. I had a handful of chips and I put the bag away quickly. There aren’t many  left, but I couldn’t even stomach the thought of another one.

An hour later, I’m sick to my stomach, like drink a gallon of water to make myself vomit if I don’t end up throwing up whatever mess is happening inside my body sick. UGH. When I told HWMMS he asked if the dip could be bad? Nope.

It’s me. My body hates me.

Instinctively, I know, I made myself sick.

I’m sick filled with hate for myself. Eating the handful of chips was a nice physical reminder that my body decided to latch on to. And despite sitting there willing the ick to go away—instead of going to bed, instead of drinking lots of water and a wee cup of gross chalky pink pepperminty Pepto and cursing myself for being so damn, weak and stupid and fat and disgusting and horrible. (And no, this isn’t overreacting, in fact I’m much harsher in my head than I am sharing here…it’s deep inside, primal. No need for words, the hate and disappointment in myself doesn’t need words.) Instead of all these options, I knew I needed to write this out. Right now.

WRITE THIS OUT RIGHT NOW. In the moment.

The healing won’t begin if I keep repeating the same cycle and not creating some sort of accountability. Even the small step of acknowledging my abject failure to take control of my health while writing it out on this post, is better than having these feelings and thoughts once again float within—-and then out…and then POOF—-gone until the next time.

Somehow I knew the thing that would make the very real, physical feeling to vomit go away, was throwing up these words instead.

Guess what, I was right.

If I could only remember how rotten I feel when I eat crap, moments before I eat the crap instead of after.

Now time for bed, tomorrow is another -possibly chip free-day. Maybe tomorrow I can read back these words, laugh and say “dude, it’s only chips, get over it.”


Whatcha talkin' bout Willis?