The reality of my weight gain has finally hit me upside the head. Naturally, I am going to process this out loud for all the Internet to see.
On a woman of average height, twenty pounds is not that big a deal. I’m 4’11”. I gained just under a quarter of my old weight, and I still only weigh 106. But it’s like having a whole new body–well, a gently used body. New to me. Every garment I cull from my closet because it just doesn’t fit anymore and isn’t supposed to, every time I guess my own size wrong, every soft place where there was bone, these are all reminders that I have changed. Change is frightening, especially change I don’t get to undo. Because I could so easily reverse the steps I took to get here. I could go off Remeron and go back to ignoring my hunger. I could even throw in an obsessive workout routine. There are people in my life who mean the world to me who would be damn sorry if I did that, though. They’d have every right to turn their backs on me, because choosing to go back is choosing the eating disorder.
Yeah, even though I’m recovered now, it’s always going to tempt me. I have a hard time embracing an ultra-feminine, “sexy” shape because I am not actually ultra-feminine, and I don’t want to represent “sexy” to anyone except my beloved. I miss androgyny. I’m also not fond of my hair right now; it is at an awkward length, one that’s not even popular right now, but is a stop on the way to the length I do want. The trouble with awkward-length hair is that it looks better with my winter wardrobe, unless I take the time to wet it and let it curl every day, and these days I have enough trouble just going about my day. If I have energy to spare, I’d rather spend it walking around my neighborhood, or writing fiction. Not, ugh, messing with this mop. I might have felt odd when my hair was shortshortshort, but that hair was effortless. Also, I’m not sure what I’d do with long hair–throw it back in a ponytail? Every day? I am hopeless at anything more complicated, to include the classic single braid. Plus, my ears stick out.
But I don’t know where those thoughts come from. I only know that I’m not in a place where I can make decisions and not regret them later. The part of me that wants to hack off all my hair, leaving it tufty on the top and smooth below, maybe even with subtle lowlights, this part of me is wrestling with the part that immediately tosses up a mental picture of Donald Duck. I used to screw with my image when I felt unsettled. Is that what’s going on? I’m uncomfortable with my body, so, what, I’m going to mess with my hair?
I haven’t felt this strange in my own skin since I was a teenager.