A Time For Love . . .

I was getting all set and ready to go full on self-deprecation mode with this. I mean, it has been nearly two years since I last checked in. And probably about thirty pounds in the wrong direction. How would I know for sure? I’ve contracted scale-itis. It stares at me with that knowing, blank, LED screen when I enter the bathroom and have to turn sideways to maneuver between toilet and tub. . . but I’m certain not to make eye contact for fear of feeling shamed by an inanimate object.

We might lie to ourselves and think “it’s not so bad” as we burgeon out of stretch pants and refuse invitations to go places, afraid of not being able to fit into our jeans, but deep down we know the truth. At least I know my truth. I feel it in my skin, in my knees, in my inability to sleep well. I see it in the mirror, in disgusted looks from strangers, in the eyes of concerned loved ones too worried about hurting my feelings to say anything about the weight gain.

But the longer we hide, the worse it gets.

It’s easy to douse ourselves with loathing. What am I doing? Why can’t I get it right? I know better, what’s my problem? I HATE MYSELF!!! But that only gets us to the bottom of an ice cream carton.

It’s love we need. It’s love I need . . . from myself.

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A Little Ditty on HATE…

Hmm. Is it a coincidence that the word HATE is just ATE with an H in front?

How could I Have ATE that?

I sometimes HATE myself after I ATE something that I knew I shouldn’t have stuffed in my face…

Did you ever have that feeling? That feeling of insta-guilt?

And then the obligatory WHY? Why am I doing this to myself? Why am I making the conscious choice to cram crap down my food hole?

Just the simple fact that I associate HATE with food means I have an unhealthy relationship with what I need to live.  It’s like saying I hate the fact that I took a breath of that dang oxygen. What the heck was I thinking?!

So the question must be asked. Why do I self-loathe? Even better, why do I eat what I eat knowing shame will set in the moment I crumple up the wrapper?

Is it because I am ashamed I’ve let myself go? So screw it. Lots of people are fat. Look! I’m not nearly as fat as that person . . .

No.

It’s because I want to be perfect . . .