Before covid lockdown I had lost 40lbs. I was close to my goal weight and I felt good. Then covid hit, food in my area got scarce in the groceries, and we had to eat what we could get our hands on. We were doing a low-carb diet which was doing wonders, but because of quarantine we had to break that.
I’m not grossly overweight, and I might be lucky in how my body fills in, I got the pear shape, with big thighs and slightly narrower waist.
Now that things have more or less normalized, all of my progress is gone. A hard backslide. It’s been so hard to get back on the diet since I’m still in the 2020 headspace of “fuck it, whatever.” Eating has always been a method of finding comfort for me, and I know that’s bad. I know there are other methods to self-soothe and I do use them. It’s just that “fuckit” that hits whenever I start my diet again. How many times have I said I’d go back on it? I’ve been faking it since the New Year.
“Okay, today I start being good again.”
“Ahhh maybe tomorrow…”
“How about next week? It doesn’t matter anyway.”
I’m so afraid of stepping on my digital scale to see the damage that I’ve not replaced the batteries that died back in June.
I’ve been battling weight issues and body image since I was a little kid. It’s a source of so much vile self-hate and self-inflicted mental-emotional abuse. I’ve never felt thin. I’ve never felt pretty. Body positivity promotion makes me cry and want to disappear. I’ve never felt good about myself. 31 years old and I still get childishly insecure around others. It’s been a dream since I was a kid to get cosmetic surgery. Lypo, tummy tuck, chin tuck, doctor please do something about these thunder thighs too. I could never afford it, and I’d never have my family’s support.
“You should just diet and exercise.”
I’m so tired of this being the answer to everything. The knee-jerk reaction everyone gets, telling me what I already know as if it were a brand new fact.
Thanks. I know.
I had a friend (not friends anymore) tell me “You need to get out more” when I couldn’t keep up at a theme park. She had an agenda for the day, a schedule to keep to, and we had to go go go when all I wanted was to enjoy the ambience and people-watch. I had to push myself so hard to keep up with her that I went home with a two-inch blister on my foot and then some. Couldn’t walk without pain for two weeks. I never forgave her for that. How fucking insensitive can you be?
Weight is the root of all of pretty much all my issues. I don’t feel like I can find the perfect Significant Other. I hate going outside and feel gross when I exercise in front of people, so I can’t go to the gym without wanting to break down. Clothes shopping gives me anxiety. Hell, even sitting makes me feel fat. Like…sitting anywhere. I take up too much space. I overflow. I’m disgusting.
I can’t eat anything without someone remarking about how it’s going to impact the body. Charting food and counting calories, looking at fat content and reading long lists of ingredients. I can’t enjoy even a small snack without thinking “this is bad for me because of x and y.” I don’t eat horribly usually, but having no real escape from this mentality circles back to a wild scream of “fuck it, I don’t care.” And then I eat horribly.
I have lowkey resented my friends for being thin. I’m always the heaviest friend in the group. And they…don’t even have to try? God, I wonder what that feels like. Free of this burden.
Today me and my family are supposedly going back on our diet. Again. We’ve been starting and stopping since after Christmas of 2020. I don’t feel good about it. I don’t feel good about me. This has been a lifelong struggle and the older I get the more I ask myself if there’s a point? Is there an end to all this?