Going from a size four to an eighteen in a matter of months is life altering. In my head I still looked the same, it was the dryer that kept shrinking my clothes not my ass that was expanding at exponential rates!
Then I saw a picture.
I wasn’t just “a little bigger”.
I was huge.
And I kept growing. (But I stopped taking pictures, GENIUS I SAY.)
The most a scale ever registered me at was 183 lbs. (I’m 5′ 3″)
I stopped weighing myself. (Another genius move.)
60 pounds isn’t much right?
Let’s review a bikini clad picture from last month.
(I heart you Florida.)
Now let’s examine a bikini clad photo from the summer of 2003.
See a difference? Where’s my neck?
Now before you go all “but you’re not that big” please review Megan’s rules for complaining. (Absolutely brilliant post, read it, really. Go, now, I’ll wait.)
And this wasn’t pregnancy folks, this was medication. Which is why to this day I’m wary of any drugs going into the beacon of awesomeness which is myself.
But here’s the problem.
My psyche is all fudged up. I complained that I was a fatty at a size four. (GAG, I know.) I swore that when and if I ever lost weight I would never complain again as long as my clothes fit. But guess what?
It’s kinda hard.
I have a new understanding for people suffering with anorexia. People say such nice things to me, and I’m grateful for any compliments I receive. I (try) to accept it gracefully. Not with a “Oh, well, thanks but I could lose another fifteen” or “Thanks for thinking I have pretty hair BUT HAVE YOU SEEN MY REAR?” But when I look in the mirror I rarely see what others say they see. I know that while the tag on my jeans says six my head says it’s a typo.
I’ve just now decided to turn comments off on this post. I don’t want consoling, nor do I need it. I am grateful for all my working body parts. (except you, uterus, troublemaker. We’ll talk later. humph.) My body image will likely be out of whack forever. But I don’t need to let it control me. Especially when I have a confident daughter to raise.
More than anything I want to be beautiful on the inside. I want to be at peace with my choices. I want to be a good person, a good friend, a good wife, a good mom, a good Christian and a freaking amazing blogger. There’s a poster at the Y that says “When God measures a man he puts the ruler around his heart, not his waist.” Or something like that.
I want to have an unmeasurable heart.
So I can forget about the measurement of my waist.
It’s hard to forget this though, right? RIGHT?
Mmmm. Cot Cheeee.
The next feature here at moosh in indy.
“Bulimia works, but I DO NOT condone it. How I lost 60 pounds while pregnant.”