This week hasn’t been so bad. I stepped on the scale this morning and it read 268.4, which means I’m officially down 30 pounds in 6 weeks. However; I’m currently cramming about 700 calories worth of lunch into my face. I don’t think the scale will be as forgiving tomorrow. Yesterday I had breakfast and a late lunch of Moes burrito bowl with no rice (550 calories since I don’t like sour cream and all of that other crap), when I got home I just couldn’t eat anything. I felt so bloated and nasty, and there was no room for anything. So, I went to bed without dinner, but I’m not mad. I know my intake was too low yesterday, but oh well. I sure didn’t care when my intake was too high.
I was fixing my lunch a minute ago and my coworker said “You can really tell you’ve lost weight. Oh my god” and I just looked at her. She said “Look at your pants.” I looked down behind me and noticed my scrub pants are seriously, seriously baggy. Where the ass and legs go, it’s like parachute pants now. It even surprised me. As much time as I spend scrutinizing my body, I can’t believe I missed that. I told her that after I ate this chicken sandwich, my pants were going to get tighter. Ah, a little humor to hide the fact that I hate myself for wanting this frozen chicken sandwich. Oh well.
I was reading a book last night (one I finished in two days) that had some trigger points in it. The main character’s boyfriend was schizophrenic and tried to kill himself on several occasions. Now, I’m not schizophrenic, but the descriptions of this boy dragging blades across his skin, the thoughts that kept telling him he wasn’t good enough, he was a loser, nobody loved him, etc etc … it was just so difficult to read and not cry about it. How many people have felt like that? I know I wasn’t the only one at 15 dragging a knife across my arm. I wasn’t the only one hurting so deeply inside that I welcomed the physical pain to take over and simmer down the mental anguish. Watching the blood drip from my arm onto the carpet and laughing to myself when I realized that my narcissistic mother was going to kill me herself if I didn’t succeed at this. The mental hospital stay, the way my mom cried and sobbed and pointed fingers and made herself out to be this pristine woman who only loved her daughter, instead of the drug-addicted man-choosing whore that she was. Seriously, after her drug addict boyfriend destroyed our third house and pawned all of my stuff (down to my clothes), and I told her it was him or it was me, she told me to get out. And I did. At fourteen I had to live with my aunt because my mom refused to put her children first. And then she told everyone that I was the one out of control. And then she made me come back home after a month, because it was making her look bad to not take care of her kid. Even after social services were called on her, even after my brother and myself told our stories, she was deemed fit enough to take care of us. How? Why? It’s not fair. And so I took matters into my own hands.
But truth be told, I’m glad that I didn’t succeed. I wouldn’t have the amazing life I have now, because I wouldn’t be here to enjoy it. It wasn’t my time to go, and thank God I opened my eyes and saw the way to get out of the crap without destroying myself.