I don’t own a scale. I can’t. I haven’t owned one since I moved out on my own. I can’t. I become obsessive, living by those numbers. When I lived at home I couldn’t resist the lure of it’s judgment, it’s concrete answers. I knew it was unhealthy, but I did a lot of unhealthy things back then. I didn’t have a very good relationship with my body.
Some days I consider getting rid of my mirrors, but it’s an empty threat. I couldn’t. Someone once told me that Libra’s were obsessed with their own reflection. I liked that astrological explanation for my vanity. I can’t walk by one with out checking, looking, catching my own watchful eye.
There’s always something about meeting someone new that makes me hyper-aware of myself. With partners I feel connected with I lose my inhibitions. I know they like what they see, I don’t doubt their gaze, but with new people there is no such assurance. I get anxious until they see my nakedness and reassure me. I have such an unreasonable need for others approval.
This is one of the ways this blog has been helpful. I post pictures of myself where I like what I see. And the more pictures I take the more things I find to like. And now I have pages of evidence that I like my body. I’ve never in my life spent time trying to genuinely like my body. Only time trying not to hate my body. Those are very different things.
I’m grateful. I’m so far from that little girl who hid and withheld and starved and lied and counted and fidgeted and numbed and escaped and cut and purged.
That girl who hurt.
She’s still in there, she still speaks up from time to time, but they’re only whispers.
I can handle whispers.