The Weight of My Weight

I've never really seen myself as "fat" until I finally went to the doctor of missed periods. No, I'm not pregnant and I'm also not going to shy away from this conversation any longer. Anyways, after a bunch of tests the doctor finally diagnosed me as having PCOS. I'm not going to talk that, but it leads me to what he said next. He told me it would help if I lost weight. I had known for awhile that I fell under "obese," but after actually hearing it from a doctor I trusted, it really set in.

I got home and it was like an immediate fear and hatred of food. I started skipping breakfast, a lot of times lunch, but when dinner came around, I binge ate. That cycle went on for a few months until something was added. My binge eating makes me feel disgusting and I find myself in the bathroom with my fingers down my throat because of fear and guilt.

I now this is a cycle I need to stop, but the Instagram models and pretty celebrities aren't fat. I find myself scrolling through their feeds even when I say I'm not going to. When I do finally see one that's "fat" the first comments are shaming them. There is not winning when it comes to body image.

The comments always lay heavy on my mind. I know that it doesn't attack me personally, but it does my body type. I'm not saying this for compliments or anything, but I want everyone to be aware of eating disorders and body image comments. It really "weighs" on a person and the more I've looked through comments on peoples' Instagram's, I've noticed that even the skinny, beautiful humans negative body image comments flood in. When will this weight of our weight be lifted? We live in a world where beauty doesn't exist but yet it's fought for.

He died this month...

He died this month; we buried him on Halloween.  I know it’s been almost 8 years and it sounds ridiculous, which is why I don’t talk about it. Because why should I still talk about how angry I am for him dying so many years ago when somebody died before I even finished typing this. 

But that doesn’t make my pain any less valid. And people telling me stuff like that doesn’t help and that’s all any says. 

“Oh he woulda wanted you to be happy” “oh don’t think of it like that” “oh just move on” 

Well, try losing someone, the only person you felt you had, and living your life in a lie and pretending like you were okay, even at his funeral. Because everyone else in the family had someone but the person I usually had when something devastating happened was the one laying in the casket. 

Try every single day faking a smile to please your family. Even now, I fake a smile some days, most days. Especially in October. 

Try leaning on artwork by an artist over a 1,000 miles away because they remind you of a children’s book you and your cousins and brother read and because they are the only thing you feel like you have now. Try then leaning on podcasts by said artist and his friend that tells of horror stories with history involved because they remind you of the ones your dead grandfather used to tell. 

Try finding every way necessary to even keep yourself alive and stop yourself from cutting or even drinking more than a few drinks of alcohol. Try hiding behind “I’m fine”s. Try not feeling a damn thing in situations you should be upset in, but yet feeling everything in the ones you shouldn’t be upset in. 

Try cuddling with your dog and randomly crying because he won’t get to see her. Try having said dog lick the tears the won’t stop flooding your cheeks. Try staying awake at trying to remember the good time, yet failing and finally the tears stop at 4:00 in the morning. 

Try hearing “you haven’t grieved” or “you’re still grieving” well guess what? There’s not a freaking how to book on it. It’s not like there’s technically dos and don’t s when someone dies. 

And yet you still say, “Remember the happy times” like I haven’t heard that before. That’s why I’m hurting. Because I can’t remember. 

I can’t remember the beach or battleship. I can’t remember some of our trips to Gatlinburg. I can’t remember Disney or fixing s’mores in a hotel room. I can’t remember when they came to visit when we lived in Alabama. 

And it’s getting so damn hard to even remember is voice or his smell.   

No one knows how much I’m holding in, even after saying all of that. Maybe this is just a thing I will fight for the rest of my life....how ironic, right?

As I finish my rant, I want to say DO NOT let anyone tell you how or how long to grieve. DO NOT let anyone tell you that your pain, your life, your healing, your journey, is not valid. Every single one of us has our own stories to tell. Our own legacies to leave. Don’t let anyone else tell you how to write.