Dear Scale:
It has come to my attention that you are feeling neglected and, quite possibly, suffering from depression related to a lack of purpose. Since I’m not speaking to you right now, I thought it best to address the situation with a letter. You know how to dish it out, so let’s see if you can take it as well.
Okay, that was mean. It’s not your fault you are conditioned to be brutally honest and couldn’t win a game of poker if your life depended on it. So maybe this isn’t a case of you being heartless, but rather a case of me just well…needing some space.
It’s not you…it’s me…
See, for way too long I have been dependent on you to set the tone for my day. You told me in no uncertain terms how much of me there was and depending on your verdict, I was either flying high on finding less of myself or diving head first into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s to drown my sorrows. The clothes in my closet seemed to be in cahoots with you, too. It didn’t matter if I woke up feeling like I had rainbows shooting out my bum because if you called me a fat ass that marked the exact moment that everything in my closet which fit me yesterday would magically shrink just to prove your point.
That’s just not playing fair.
I have an idea what you would tell me if I decided to pull you out and put you to work, and I’m sure I probably wouldn’t like it very much. Numbers aren’t needed when I feel the softening in my belly from too much of what isn’t good for me and not enough of what is. Numbers don’t need to tell me that 35 minutes on the elliptical weren’t this hard before I decided to kick my Lifestyle change wagon to the curb and hope it would be waiting for me when I finally got my shit together again. I’m not an idiot. I know I stopped trying. And I certainly don’t need you to gloat.
Which explains the silent treatment.
I’ll come back to you. Not today. Probably not next week. But eventually. First, I need to get my head screwed on straighter than it’s ever been because I’m not the only one along for this ride. I’ve got a kid who looks up to me for cues on how to relate to life, the mirror, and, when she gets older, the size of her own ass in relation to the rest of the world. The eating disordered thinking that still trips me up after getting myself on track forever ago creeps up and allows for self-sabotage more often than it should, the Prozac I get too cocky to take regularly is obviously something I shouldn’t be getting cocky about so I can keep my shit together in the first place, and that whole focusing on health instead of the number thing is something I really need to get embedded in my brain for my kid’s sake and mine. I might talk a good talk but, frankly, she’s pretty damned smart and I’m quite sure she inherited her father’s bullshit detector.
That means it’s time to put up or shut up.
The wagon? I fell off. But then I wised up and starting popping my happy pills again and then I climbed back into myself and then I climbed onto the elliptical that’s still stuck on the highest setting. I’m trying again. And as long as I try, I can hold my head up high no matter what you say.
But I’m not ready for you yet. I need to focus on the inside of my head first and the feeling of accomplishment after a workout and the example I’m setting for my daughter and the fact that numbers aren’t as important as health or happiness. So just give me a little time.
Don’t worry. I’m not kicking you out. I’ll come back to you when I’m ready. Until then, let’s just consider this a trial separation. Oh, and the Prozac is on the top shelf of my medicine cabinet. Help yourself.
Sincerely,
Me
Pauline Campos contributes to Funny Not Slutty, Owning Pink, and 30 Second Mom. She blogs three times a week at Aspiring Mama (or when she remembers to take her Adderall) and is the founder of Girl Body Pride. This post originally appeared on Aspiring Mama.
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