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source: https://www.reddit.com/r/reactiongifs/comments/7e5dl1/mrw_im_told_i_should_lose_weight/
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the last time i checked my weight
The last time I saw my weight was probably 15 pounds ago. Or maybe it was 20, 30? I stopped checking after I realized I weighed more than my 7 cats combined. The thought of climbing back onto a scale, and seeing 3 digits dictate my self-worth was anything but enticing. Seeing that atrocious number flash at me I would remember all the times I had eaten that piece of cake, or that burger or that milkshake when I knew it shouldn’t have. I would question all my choices- was that vanilla flavored ice-cream sprinkled with diabetes and remorse worth the heavenly after-taste? I would think of the list of health issues the doctors predicted I would have, the size 2 sunflower-printed dress I would never fit into, and the high school football quarterback that would never take me to homecoming. Most of all though, I could vividly remember what it felt like to go through 18 years of disappointment and pity from my parents.
My mother was thin, beautiful and never had the same problems I did. She never understood why I didn’t look like her physically. We had the same deep blue eyes that welled up at any trailer for a Rom-Com, we had the same high-pitched laugh that imitated the noise a seal makes when its dying, and we had the same incapability to express any acts of affection or our emotions. For all the ways we were the same though, we were so much more different. She never knew how to deal with me, how to tell me I was overweight or that I should maybe go for a run around the block. Instead at dinner time, she would just take some food off my plate and pass it to the dog, or start cleaning up the table while I was barely halfway through my meal. She would place the candies and sugary snacks my siblings divulged in on a shelf that was just two inches out of reach for me. She would never explicitly say I was a disappointment, but the way she handled herself around me said enough.
My father, on the other hand, didn’t see me as anything different. “You’ve got more to love” he would mutter, trying to inflate the last few scraps of self-esteem I had spent so long destroying. He bought me my first two-piece bathing suit, and all the other clothes that as a larger girl society prohibited me from ever wearing in public. His daughter was alive, well and healthy, and that’s all he could have asked for. He was always rooting for me, grabbing the Twinkies my mom had placed on the shelf I could not reach, and taking me out for pizza after school when it was just me and him. I always wondered if this was part of the problem- the fact that he never truly accepted that maybe I wasn’t perfect. Maybe I could have lost a few pounds as a kid and eaten a vegetable once in a while. Maybe, just maybe, pretending that I didn’t hear the names kids called me behind my back wasn’t a full proof way to heal the deep scars that their words had already left.
I’ll be straightforward with you- my childhood was not perfect. I am the textbook example of the chubby girl who was bullied by everyone at school, and grew up with all these issues she’ll probably never overcome and always uses her weight to say “poor me”. However, the biggest battle I faced wasn’t with society or the world, it happened right at home. I lived in this conflicting world of a mother who didn’t know how to tell me what was wrong and a father who believed ignorance was bliss. I felt like I only had two options- eat less and look like the person my mother wanted, or love myself for my issues, all 200 pounds of them.
The last time I hopped on a scale was the first time I let myself decide how to feel about my weight.
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Because we want to love and be loved, but don't want to be hurt again, many settle for a version of what satisfies them. They enter into a relationship in which they can keep one foot in the water, and the other safely out, on the sand. They pick partners with flaws about which they can complain but which allow them to remain psychologically distant.
source: https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/relationship-boot-camp/201104/why-you-can-hate-the-one-you-love
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source: http://girlrose.tumblr.com/post/167973334303/spellboundlove
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source: https://www.theodysseyonline.com/poems-read-rupi-kaurs-milk-honey-immediately
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the last time i saw myself
The last time I saw myself, my true self, was years ago. I have since forgotten what it’s like to look into a mirror and be able to recognize the person looking back at you. When did I get these wrinkles? When did I get this scar on my chin? When did I start hating who I am? They say everyone has two faces, one which they show to the world and the other which is a reflection of their truest self. I used to be a rare exception to duplicity because for me both faces were the exact same. Now when I look in the mirror, all I see is an empty, lifeless, sham of a person who needs to invest in a better eye cream.
I miss not being a sell-out. I would tell people “I’m never going to work a corporate job”, “I’d never sell my soul like that”, “I’m never going to be one of those people that throw on a smile and hate themselves every day”. I used to be a free spirit, I did what I wanted, when I wanted, how I wanted. I had drive, ambition and I actually cared. I miss caring. Genuinely, affectionately, caring about something so much that the sheer thought of it gets your heart racing to 100 miles an hour until it’s the only thing you ever think about. I miss having a purpose, having a passion. The kind of passion that gives you a reason to jump out of bed every morning and scream the lyrics to “Don’t Stop Believing” out your window so everyone else in the world can feel the exact same way you’re feeling.
I miss feeling full. Full of excitement and optimism. Not rolling my eyes at everything everyone says, or always looking for a vice in other people. I miss not feeling hollow on the inside like someone had carved and scooped out my organs like a cantaloupe and left behind this empty shell in a grey suit. I miss being content with everything I had and proud of my successes, rather than feeling ready to hop on the next plane to Iceland and live my life out as a hermit when any slight inconvenience comes my way. I miss laughing. Laughing so hard my stomach hurt. Smiling so big that people would look at me like I belonged in an asylum. Dancing out in public like I was the only one on the street and not stopping when someone would call me crazy. Because I was crazy, and I loved it.
I miss being enough for myself. I used to believe I was strong enough to fulfill my needs. I would be the type of woman to buy my own ring, put myself up in a penthouse, and go through life knowing that I was the only soulmate I’d ever need. I never believed in love and wasn’t much of an emotional person, but I would’ve believed the earth was flat if he’d told me to. I was this starry-eyed school girl who imagined this future for me and this person who took advantage of the innocent vulnerability I carried around on my sleeve. As much as I hate admitting it, he was the start of my undoing. While he ended up finding someone else to entertain him through the night, I found my dark thoughts to entertain me. Now I look for what he took from me in other people, searching to replace the half of a whole he stole.
The last time I saw myself, I had known what it was like to be happy.
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the last time i saw him
The last time I saw him was in my dreams. Ironic, for his presence, has been nothing but a nightmare. He looked and sounded just as he had the last time I laid my eyes on him- but something was off, something was different. I didn’t cringe at the sound of his voice or scowl every time he directed any sort of conversation at me. I didn’t feel my peanut butter and jelly sandwich from lunch coming back up when we made eye contact or have a thousand ways I could insult him right in that moment running through my mind.
In my dreams, he was still the annoying 15-year old boy that sat behind me in History and continually made puns about Pokemon, but for some god-forsaken reason, I liked it. I enjoyed listening to him go on and on about the rare creature he had just caught, or about how he got the scar on his leg from skateboarding, or about how he was born with an extra toe. His presence didn’t disgust me completely, and one could even say that it was a bit comforting, warm, familiar.
The thought of him and me sitting in that classroom like it was just the two of us lit my heart ablaze. I had butterflies- actual butterflies fluttering around in my stomach, flapping their wings to the beat of my heart so hard that at one point I swore I was going to burst open. It was like that scene in the movies, where a girl realizes she’s falling for some guy and makes this face. You know the face? Like the whole world was just falling down and crumbling around her, but the only eyes she had were for him.
Have I become that protagonist in those coming-of-age movies that always rerun on MTV? He disgusted me, I hated him, he was gross, but for some reason, it used to be easier to convince myself of that. I thought maybe, if I saw him one last time, in person in the flesh and blood and all the other defects that make him, him, I would remember what it was about his personality, about his being that just infuriated me. I wanted to remember so badly that it hurt- I needed to remember.
I decided I was going to face him again. It was the only way I could get out of this rut. I threw on my raincoat, grabbed my seven-speed bike, and made my way over to the park where I knew he’d be. On the way there, I thought of all the things I would say to him- I hate you for never showering and always smelling like cat litter, I hate you for pretending like you know everything in class and being a know-it-all, and I hate you for leaving without saying goodbye. I walked over to the tombstone engraved with “William Garner, 2002-2017”, and in that moment, I could feel my stomach about to burst once again.
The last time I saw him was in my dreams, and that’s the only way I’ll ever see him again.
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