I let my scale down as it goes up. There it is, disappointed in me again, chastising me for failing. Well Fatty, shouldn’t have eaten Sonic on Saturday. Should have run faster. Shouldn’t be so ugly. You are disgusting. Your body is wrong.
I used to write in my journal something along the lines of: “I can lose all the weight I want, but what’s the point? I can’t change my ugly face.” Once I step on the scale and discover I’ve failed, any shred of self-confidence I’ve gathered in the past ten years becomes a pile of ash. Inevitably, I will feel sick to my stomach. Inevitably, I’ll stare at photos of myself, analyzing, picking, beating up. Inevitably, I’ll no longer be able to look in the mirror. Inevitably, I’ll compare.
Sometimes I think my entire life has been a struggle against food, or more accurately, against what they call healthy self-esteem. Today is one of those days where I give up and hate myself, and hate the pudgy marshmallow surrounding my innards.
I hate that I watch what I eat and exercise and nothing happens.