I walked into the elevator today to travel down six floors, and surrounded by strangers on all sides, I stared straight ahead into the mirrored door.
And there, straight ahead of me, was the reflection of a girl I didn’t recognize. Her face was puffy, her cheek bones lost, her hair not washed for far too many days, and in an outfit that was less than ordinary.
I made eye contact with this girl. Stared her down, really. And this stranger, blankly stared right back at me. And there, in that elevator, around the third floor I had this wave of pure sadness sweep over me. What the actual fuck have I done?
I have issues with food. I know this. You know this. The whole world glancing my way knows this. I think about it far too much. Promise tomorrow I’ll conquer the battle. And within 6 months I’ll have won the war. And then it’s always the same. Today is tomorrow. And tomorrow is my deadline.
And now I’m twenty nine, and in certain aspects of my life I feel like I’ve finally got my shit together, finally got a life plan, finally figured out the path I want to take. I am happy in nearly all areas of my life, with the exception of my weight.
Last week I went to dinner with a guy I went on about fifteen dates with (I actually have no idea how many dates, but whatever, that’s not the point), and he told me back on the first date he could tell how self conscious I was about my body. Fuck. My body language, he noted, showed it through and through. This girl doesn’t like the way she looks, he thought, as he watched my awkward arm gestures, purse placements, and sweater adjustments. Holy shit.
I don’t even know where I’m going with this post, or what my plan of action should be. But I do know I have to do something, because it appears that it doesn’t matter how happy I am in my life, whether it be my career, my apartment, friends/family, finances, social outings… because being unhappy with one’s weight is overpowering and trickles into all facets of life. And what I know, and what I believe, is that my life is better not fat. And oh, how I find myself yearning for the days when weight/weight loss was just a slice of the pie that is my life, instead of trickling and perhaps even dominating all the corners of it.
And of course I realize a smaller size or lower weight doesn’t equate to a better, easier, everything-falls-in-your-lap life, but I know the confidence it ensues within me trickles into every moment I live. Big or small, throughout my days, the confidence of looking and feeling good, well, there’s nothing quite like it. From quietly painting my nails on my couch, to tossing on a party dress on in a hurry and running out the door, it’s easier to not be overweight. And simply put, I miss those days.
I miss my old face, and clothes, and confidence. I miss not constantly thinking I look obese. I miss feeling fit, and pretty, and content with who I am. I miss taking photos and not caring about the angel, or seeing a reflection and liking what I see… today, that’s sure not how it is; not even a little bit, well, not even at all.
And as I look around my apartment, at the photos on my walls, of my work laptop I happily took out this evening, at my phone that’s been buzzing with messages all evening from friends and family, it appears to me that the final piece to the game of my life, is my weight. And I’m drowning in desperately wanting to change, but not being able to do so. Wash, rinse, repeat, but how long can this last before… well, I don’t know what, but whatever it is, honestly, it scares me. A lot.