As I beat myself up for not being able to stick in to my “detox” diet, here I am apologising for the body thatI have.
I am apologising for my loss of discipline. Yes, I ate an entire gallon of ice cream all by myself. I ate one huge pack of Lays. I also drank an entire bottle of Tempranillo.
1500? 2000? 500 867? Whatever it is I know that I already gained more than 10 lbs and here I am apologising for my enormity.
I, unlike the other girls, have a secret.
I hate that I eat and I most certainly hate what I do afterwards.
A lot of people would call me an “attention seeker”, but let me elucidate that I was never really a fan of my body.
I wish I was smaller.
I wish I weighed less than 100 lbs.
I wish I was prettier.
But all of this equate to the fact that no matter how hard I try I end up picking getting an entire slab of steak only to punish myself away for the calories that come with it.
I have always been on the heavier side.
Until I wasn’t.
Until I weighed like a little girl.
And when I got to that “goal number”, everything still looks like a nightmare.
I am dressed with a body I don’t like, and it comes with a brain that won’t stop calculating the calories that come with every single bite.
It’s like being in an abusive relationship for almost 8 years now and I can’t help but feel as if it will never end.
I have accepted that fact that I might be married to a monster for the rest of my life.
And despite the depression that comes along with it, I can’t help but go back and take my monster’s hand for support as I flush the noodles that I just ate.
To make the situation worse that it already is, I can’t help but shatter every time I hear the words “You seemed to have gained a little weight”.
I am sick and tired of wanting to disappear.
I am sick and tired of running my fingers to every bone that’s sticking out.
I can feel these bones get farther and farther away from the surface every single time I run my fingers over them.
I hate myself.
I hate that I am here.
I hate that I couldn’t keep my weight down.
I hate everything.
And now I shall fake a fever just so I could have a proper excuse for not attending that workshop.
Simply because I don’t want to go to dinner with my officemates and because I know that I failed to empty my stomach from that devastating meal that I just had.
I want it and I don’t want it.
I need it, but I know that it’s killing me.
And I don’t know how I’ll get by today without wanting to light a thousand cigarettes to mourn the day that just started.
I am sick and tired of apologising for my body.
So let this be the last time that I shall.
For the next apology won’t be as well-thought of as this one.
Rather, it’d say the words “Emergency” and “I don’t think I’ll make it out today.”