OK, so I haven't blogged for a while, though I have been doing one thing every day that scares me (a few have literally brought me out in hives of fear, you honestly have no idea). While I plan to play catch-up in the next couple of days with tales of spiders, of unwritten speeches ad-libbed while hammered and of mice and me, today's post is just because I need to get something off my rather ample chest. This week I joined WeightWatchers and the gym and started on the long journey back to liking myself and it is frankly scaring me to death.
I got scared when I realised how much money I was spending on junk. When I counted the units of alcohol I was drinking each day, each week, each month and how many calories were contained within. When I looked in the mirror and saw how bad my skin was, how large my bottom was, how many chins I had developed. When I went shopping and started to automatically pick up size eighteens. When even the man I'm seeing told me perhaps I should think about dropping a few pounds. When I couldn't climb my stairs without wanting to die. When I looked at pictures of myself in 3rd year on a choir trip and thought, good God, I was beautiful and I didn't realise. How did it come to this?
My old reaction would be do an online order for Domino's (can't call them up and have to tell them I want junk food; this is something that for me has always required as little human contact as possible), buy a bottle of wine from the corner shop where I'm sure the employees think I have A Problem, dig out my hidden chocolate, watch tv and cry about being fat and unloveable and always feeling like shit. Well, fuck that. No more. I refuse to be the fat girl cliche who ends up settling in romance, in career, in life. I deserve better and I'm making it (very slowly, painfully bloody slowly) happen.
This isn't for all the men who have hooked up with me but want too keep it on the "down-low" because they "can't be seen with me in public". This isn't for all the dinner party jokes and nicknames and one particularly vile claim that "if anyone ever slept with her, they'd have a problem finding her lady parts under all the rolls" (you know who you are and you make me sick). This isn't for all the directors who have passed me over because I didn't "look right" for a role. This isn't for all my friends who even unwittingly backhandedly compliment me. This isn't for the boy I've known since childhood who I saw last Christmas and who shoved his leftovers at me and said "you look like you like pie". This isn't even for my family, who have gently or not tried to wake me up to the fact that being this way isn't healthy.
This is for me. Just me.
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