by Cassie

Truth: I woke up angry. Bloated. Mad, just MAD, mad that I’ve gained back 17 lbs, mad that I care, mad that my first instinct is to run back to Weight Watchers and start counting calories again, because it’s familiar, because there’s a comfort in it, because it works for me (until I stop.) Mad that this is all I see right now.



That this is all I can feel, an almost literal anchor around my middle. Half my underwear doesn’t fit anymore, it keeps rolling down. I can only wear one pair of jeans without feeling like I’m suffocating. I thought I was eating healthily. I know I’ve been moving my ass, walking, running, getting outside and shoveling dirt. That’s supposed to be the goal, but even in meeting it, I feel disgusted with myself, with my body. My friends are getting thinner and their posts trigger so much self-loathing, so much desire to jump right back on that weight loss train, to feel that thrill of diminishing numbers. I’m just MAD. I’m nearing thirty-six years old and I should be too old to care about weight this much. So many years of my life wasted by worrying about a number on a scale. But it’s all so confusing now. Am I happier when I’m heavier and not worrying about? No, because then I feel less comfortable in my skin. Am I happier when I am dieting and actively losing weight? No, because it takes up so much time better spent LIVING. And that’s it, really. I’m mad because this is the argument I have with myself every day, the argument I’ve been having for YEARS and I am just so sick of it that I could punch myself in the teeth. GET OVER YOURSELF, self. Just go eat some nice food and go for a walk or a run and STOP LOOKING AT YOUR STOMACH WITH SO MUCH DISGUST. If only I could listen to that voice, really listen. But instead, I’ll probably log back into MyFitnessPal, track my calories, track my movement, lose a lot of weight, and then be right back here next year after I stop tracking my entire life. I just can’t even with me today. I probably should have stayed in bed.