My Love Affair with the Scale (It's Complicated)
As a little girl, I never worried about having a chocolate sundae after dinner; there was always room for dessert. But I’m not that little girl anymore and I don’t remember when counting calories became a thing.
Now, I’m about to be 21 and have become obsessed with being skinny or the smallest I can be. And PSA: living in South Florida doesn’t help.
I don’t know when I started hating how my thighs would touch or the rolls that appeared when I sat down. I hated how dressing rooms made me feel stuffy, especially when I tried on clothes I was so sure would fit. Zara dressing rooms especially, girls, please tell me you know what I’m talking about.
My freshman year of college, I was 149 lbs, the lightest I ever was. By winter break, I was pushing 185. I worked my butt off for two years, and while there were setbacks where I spiraled into mini-binge episodes, it was nothing I couldn’t get out of.
My image fluctuates frequently and you can tell almost immediately. It’s frustrating to say the least and honestly, I’m tired.
This post might make me sound lazy, but trust me when I say I’m the furthest thing from it.
I’m just tired of having to watch what I eat or work out twice a day for a difference to be seen. Watching other girls rot in bed, eat Big Macs and ice cream, drink all the time, never work out, and still look like my pointer finger sucks. I’m not judging, but skipping a workout or eating a bag of Dot’s pretzels would be nice without it mentally affecting me.
You see, the thing is, I know one “cheat” day won’t kill me, but it’s hard to realize that when you’re constantly thinking 1 of 2 things:
Where, what, and when is my next meal coming from? This that 3-in-1 combo
How soon can I work out to burn these wasted calories?
My mom jokes, “Are you always thinking about food?” But the sad truth is, yes, sometimes I am. Especially when all I worry about is how I look and how fast I can drop a pant size.
There’s nothing worse than being overstimulated from clothes. Like I can feel the wire in my bra pushing on my ribs. When I sit down in jeans and the button starts to suffocate me.
Or being intimidated by dressing rooms. I literally dread going into them when I know I’ve gained weight.
Worst of all, it’s frustrating when I talk to my mom about it and she suggests cutting out Cheerios, granola, eggs, etc. It’s like, “How much more food do I have to cut out?” I miss my avocado egg toast and my little cup of Cheerios. In hindsight, how badly is that cup of Cheerios affecting my diet?
What even is my diet? I tried everything, from intermittent fasting to meal-prepping, and yet I’m still trying to figure out what works for me.
This past August was the first time I didn’t get grossed out by how I looked in the mirror. I weighed the lowest since freshman year, but I was also in an “I can’t keep this food down cycle,” which had to do with anxiety and depression. I was still eating healthy; I just didn’t have the biggest appetite.
But I find myself in a similar position as I was two years ago because once I got out of my little funk last August, eating became easy again. I didn’t find food hard to swallow anymore. I moved on and my heart didn’t feel like it was breaking anymore. The chokehold a guy can have over you; it’s just ridiculous how much they can affect you.
I felt myself gaining weight, I knew it was happening and it was hard watching my body change again after finally looking my best. But there’s no worse feeling than visibly seeing yourself gaining weight.
I remember being in the Abercrombie dressing room trying these satin shorts in a medium, falling off my hips. I couldn’t believe it when I left the store with a size small. When the f*** was the last time I left a store with a size small?? Now I’m finding it hard to even breathe in said shorts.
And that’s what sucks most, how fast your body changes when you get out of your funk. Yet, I would never want to feel like my heart was breaking every day I woke up just to have a body I someday hoped to have. We’ll get there in a healthy way.
The scale is public enemy number one. I hate it when the number goes up, but I love it when it goes down. It seems as though it’s become my favorite thing to excite me, watching the numbers drop from the scale.
It’s a sad truth because the number on the scale doesn’t define who you are as a person. We deserve to live a life in which we don’t count calories. Nor cry in fitting rooms because we can’t button the jeans.
And I know we’re supposed to cherish our bodies because they are the vessels for all things we can do. I love my body on leg days when I’m hip thrusting or sled pushes because I know I can go heavier.
It’s moments like that where I love the body I have. You’re seeing the ongoing issue here right? It’s a love/hate relationship.
Honestly, I don’t know when I’ll stop worrying about what I look like. If I’ll ever appreciate my body for the way it is. It’s hard to do that when everything and everyone revolving around you has a societal standard on what the ideal image of a woman is supposed to look like. It’ll always be hard to stop comparing yourself to others, but everyone’s body is different.
But it’s also hard to accept that I wasn’t meant to be a “skinny, thin” girl. While I tell myself that every day, it’s also the people around you that don’t understand how you feel.
While I worry about how fast I can see changes in my legs and stomach, I’m also thoroughly enjoying the brownie I’m eating while writing this! Don’t worry, a salad will be made after this because I enjoy the nutrition-packed leaves I make.
It’s called BALANCE! *Me trying to be lighthearted!*
Body dysmorphia sucks, but so does missing out on all the things the world has to offer. It’s hard to overcome, but don’t miss out on experiences and memories because you’re too worried about the number on the scale.
I talked a lot, but this topic is near and dear to me,
Gianna
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