I was never good at math, but I have been counting calories for as long as I can remember.
I never obsessed over boys but obsessing over food quickly became my hobby.
I look back at pictures of myself last Halloween, last Thanksgiving, last Christmas…
and I see my cheek bones.
I see baggy clothes.
I see my bra strap because my shirt was literally falling off of me.
I see a defined jaw line.
Break up + pneumonia = skinny
As I said before, I’ve never been good at math, but that equation is stuck in my head.
Like a cheat sheet, I try to keep it a secret.
“I haven’t eaten all day, I deserve some candy.”
One reeses.
Two reeses.
Three reeses.
Four.
“Oh my God, what have I done?!”
“Let’s go to the gym until I pass out.”
“I just won’t eat tomorrow.”
“I’m so stupid.”
How weak I must be to not be able to resist these little demons wrapped up in wrappers that so easily escape and wrap me up in insecurities until I can’t breathe.
And not because my clothes are too tight but because of the fear of that happening.
Weak?
Weak….?
I’m not weak, but I often forfeit control.
I often allow an inanimate object such as a reeses or a scale or a toilet bowl to dictate my life.
I often fork over all that is in me (no pun intended)
And I see this act to be easy, for I often can’t seem to find much in me to begin with.
Giving up on myself…
Now THAT is weak.
Allowing myself to live,
allowing myself to enjoy the sustenance and nutrition that I need to survive,
giving myself freedom from my God damn self and all of these powerless inanimate objects…
makes me stronger.
Stronger than I was yesterday but weaker than I’ll be tomorrow.
But nonetheless…
Stronger.
I’m no mathematician, but I think this equation is > than the first.
