Last Monday, I knew I needed to go to the doctor’s. I felt awful: my head pounded, my throat was sore. I wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t due to one too many glasses of Chardonnay while prancing around with friends in the 55 degree (!!!) weather the day before, but regardless, I felt like total shit. Like every other semi-normal human being on the planet, I hate going to the doctor’s. The doctor is never on time, the waiting rooms suck, and worst of all they’re full of even sicker people who want nothing more than to either cough on you, or make meaningless conversation. The doctor’s office is bullshit. It sucks enough for anyone involved, but add an eating disorder to the mix and BOOM: instant annoyance.
As I sat in the waiting room, only one thing crossed my mind. I no longer cared that I was sick, or that the man next to me desperately needed a box of tissues. All my previous points of hatred were moo(t). They were like a cow’s opinion. Suddenly, they didn’t matter. Because in T minus 8270 or so minutes, a nurse would call me into a room, ask me to set down my things and make me walk the plank until I reached my best frenemy: the scale.
After two stints in treatment, I know I’m not supposed to get weighed. That I’m not supposed to know my weight, because one glance at the numbers holds the possibility of sending me right back down the rabbit hole. Now, it isn’t that I don’t know approximately what I weigh. My beloved dietician has fucked up before and, after all, I do buy my own clothing. I know my size, and that’s fine. But add in the scale, ah the scale, and it’s exact, perfect little numbers and I’m not entirely sure who I am anymore.
Any given day, my body image can change oh, let’s say at least 20 times to make it a nice, even number. You know how Alice said, “Why, sometimes I’ve believed in as many as 6 impossible things before breakfast.” Well, I’ve believed in as many as 6 impossible weights before breakfast, whether or not I’ve actually mentally committed to breakfast. When my name was finally called, I told the nurse I was going to skip the weigh in. She looked at me quizzically, then finally said okay. Sit down, yada yada, the doctor will be in to see you soon. My doctor walked in friendly and warm. Shouting things like, “Oh My God! It’s soooo good to see you,” And worst of all, “You. Look. Amazing!” Instantly I regretted not getting weighed.
I LOOK AMAZING?!?!?! I froze. What the fuck does that mean? I look amazing? Is she telling me I look….fat? To make matters worse, she goes over to the computer, glances at my pre-treatment weight before my second trip to hell, and exclaims, “You look like you’re maintaining this one! You’re not 80lbs anymore, so you’re doing better!” What. The. Actual. FUCK? It took everything I had to, 1. not smack her and/or 2. not run out the door and jump on the scale, because to this day, nothing pisses me off more than “You look amazing.” JK. “Healthy” might actually be worse. “I’m so happy to see you healthy.” “You look so healthy.” Blah, blah, blah, healthy. I’d rather cut off my own hair if I never had to hear it again, which is saying a lot because I have really fab hair.
And it’s not just her. Oh, no. You’re all offenders. Why in God’s name is telling me I look “amazing” even still a deal? It’s been over a year. Yes, an entire year and all you psychos want to do is tell me you’re happy I’m healthy and eating. I’m not saying I don’t appreciate it, because that wouldn’t be true. It felt heartfelt, and I’m sure it still is. Yet, isn’t it time to move on? Isn’t it time to move on to spring fashion favorites, or soon to be summer sandals? Hello, wedges! Truth be told, the last thing I need is a daily reminder a la IG that I have/had an eating disorder.
News flash bitches: recovery never ends. The thoughts still come and go. The important thing, though, is how they’re handled. I can choose to a.) jump on the scale and down the rabbit hole, or b.) learn to cope and live my life. Guess what? I choose life. And yes, that comes with good and bad days, but it’s about moving forward, not living in the past. If you’re not there yet, it’s cool. Take your time. You have to be open to it, and I’m more than happy to help. But as far as my life goes, this bitch is back and she’s in the driver’s seat (of her gorgeous 2015 Mercedes C 300). Rant over. The end.