I did something bad. I weighed myself. I knew it would have to be done because obviously I won’t be able to determine if I’ve lost 15 pounds by June 24 if I don’t even know my starting weight. So tonight I went to Wal-Mart (my hot date got canceled) and looked all over the place for a scale. I finally had to ask someone because I couldn’t find them, and it turned out the scales are in the hardware section. I don’t know if it’s just me, but I never would have guessed that. On the way home I was dreading taking the scale out of the package and reading the numbers of doom. I’m not even sure when the last time I weighed myself was; I think it was the last time I went to the doctor, which was almost a year ago. And I knew I’d probably gained weight since then, and so I was mentally preparing myself for what the number would be. I kept thinking of really outrageous numbers, and then I figured it was probably somewhere around a certain number, but deep down I knew I was overestimating in the hopes that I wouldn’t be completely shocked when I actually did get on the scale. Still, even when I got home and actually weighed myself, I was in shock. It turned out the number I’d been thinking of was way too close to what actually appeared there in front of me in those stark, hideous numbers.
Whereas I’m sure seeing this would motivate a lot of people even more, it makes me want to curl up in a ball and cry. And honestly, the first thing I wanted to do was eat ice cream. What the heck is wrong with me? How can I want food when I’ve seen what it does to me? Why does it have to be so hard? Why does it have to be my body I keep seeing in the mirror? Why can’t I like vegetables or other healthy foods or exercise?
What’s so miserable about all of this is I have no one to blame but myself. I’m so depressed. I’ll get over it, I know, but right now I just want my mom to hold me and tell me I’m beautiful anyway.