Reality Writes. I Hate Myself.

My weight is something that has always on my mind.

It is something that I can’t actually remember, at any point in time, not thinking about since my pre-pubescent teens.

It is something I talk about a lot and focus on pretty much every minute of every day. My only relief is sleep.

As I’ve gotten older and with the more diets I’ve done, more fitness programs I’ve joined, the more Instagram fit chicks I follow, I am now so confused by food, with my body and where the fuck I will end up next.

When it comes to eating, I have so many boxes in my head. I get so stressed out about what I should and shouldn’t eat. There is no longer just a “good” or “bad” box but now a “high-carb box” or the “do-not-eat-til-11 box” or “fodmap-friendly box” or “just-eat-simple box”. There’s a box for every food, multiple boxes for every food group and growing boxes for every diet, pill, potion and program I have tried.

My last appointment at my doctors wasn’t great. I am now high risk because I’m in the obese category and have high cholesterol and blood sugar. I’m embarrassed to even say that out loud. I’m 41. Anyone who knows me would tell you that yeah I’ve put on weight, but they wouldn’t call me obese. Well, so they say, and sometimes I think that too until I see a photo or get naked in front of the bathroom mirror.

So, I now have a new box. Not just a box of shame but the high-risk-obese-box-of-shame too. One that my dietician is going to put me in and start me on another new diet.

I am now frightened to let anyone see me eating. Dinner or lunch invites make me feel sick. I am always hearing this voice saying that I shouldn’t be eating that. That I am obese. I’ll have a stroke. That I can no longer hide it anymore because when I eat the whole world sees a fat, lazy, disgusting pig.

Yes, this is my self-talk. This is my way of thinking. Initially at least.

Horrified. Embarrassed. Ashamed. I hate myself.

I hate that every day I fight with my body. I try to love it. I really, really do, but it fails me every turn.

I hate that I now have a fear of food and that when I get a party invite I get consumed with anxiety and the fear of being fat-shamed or even worse gossiped about behind my back.

I hate the way I gain weight so easily and yet work so fucking hard to get it off only it never stays the fuck away.

I hate photos of me, and knowing there is a camera at any function makes me want to run and hide. But I don’t. I smile. Tilt my head forward in hopes I won’t look like I am playing chubby bunny with a packet of marshmallows. And then I wait for the upload…

I know its coming. I know it’s going to be up there for everyone to see. There’s no hiding. You might as well put up a hot pink neon sign saying “Look how fat she got!”

But I look happy, right? I’m smiling in all the photos. I’m dressed well and look confident in my skin? Well, I’m not. Clothes cannot hide what I despise any more. It’s gone too far this time.

So today I hate myself. That is the road that I am on. It’s a selfish, self-pitying road which just adds to the box of shame I carry. So many things in life to concentrate on, to be grateful for, to be appreciative of and I am consumed with my appearance.

Urgh! I can’t even finish this on a positive note. Maybe later, but for now this is the real, raw me.

2 thoughts on “Reality Writes. I Hate Myself.

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