I’m currently in the middle of a bit of a wobbly time. Wobbly in my head, wobbly in my thighs. Some people carry their extra weight really well and always look fab and chic and whatever – I do not. Mine makes me look uneven and lopsided and makes me feel like hiding forever. Mine doesn’t make me feel empowered and beautiful, it makes me feel uncomfortable.
Before we get into it, my opinions on my own body have nothing to do with anyone else’s. As I say, some people are totes happy with their own bodies and lives and that’s cool, but I’m not, and that’s cool too.
I currently weigh more than I’ve ever weighed in my life, and I currently have less motivation to sort myself out than I’ve ever had in my life. Fun times.
After putting on about a stone since Christmas (thanks for that, patisserie) I’d kinda promised myself that I’d have shed it all back off by Ollie’s graduation (1st July, lol), so that I didn’t look like he’d bought one of his family’s cows along with him for the ceremony and photos. I’m so mean to myself, but I was also really proud of that joke when I first made it and my mum found it hilarious so fight me.
I’m not fishing for compliments, don’t you worry.
On the whole I’m happy. I love Paris, I love my friends and I love my life. In every single other part of my life, it all seems to be coming together.
I’m not, however, happy with what I look like. Lately I’ve been cancelling/avoiding plans because of what I look like. With summer here, I can look forward to a good few months melting in my black jeans because I do not own a single skirt or pair of shorts. I really hate summer.
It hit me square in the chest last Friday, while out with one of my best friends in all of the world. I was so happy and care free and when everyone went for food I just wasn’t hungry – because I actually wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t boredom eating or binge eating or whatever I do to get my head around things. I was just so blissfully happy and therefore aware of my own body and knew what I did and didn’t need. I realised, completely and utterly, that I self medicate with food. I am addicted to food because I think I need it to feel better. I don’t.
I’ve been binge eating solidly for about three or four months now. Sitting in my flat by myself, thinking about how none of my clothes fit anyone, about how next year I’m going to have to hide in my room, about how I’ve let myself down, eating.
To add insult to injury, on the other side of my head, my brain is saying things like ‘well, why bother trying now? You have two weeks left in Paris so why not eat everything while you’re here and just enjoy yourself?’ Oh if only I could, brain. If only you worked like that.
I’ve had full on screaming arguments with myself, in my head, all over Paris. On the metro after a long day at school, walking through the park to meet a friend for lunch, sitting alone in my flat. Screaming arguments about how I have to eat healthily but need to have a life and make the most of Paris but need to fit into my clothes and need to be able to leave my room next year.
The more upset I get about my weight, about how hot I am in jeans, about how I’m wasting my time in Paris by eating dust, the unhappier I get and the more likely I am to eat an entire packet of oreos, and then some, in bed.
It isn’t a case of just getting over it. It isn’t a case of just living life and not worrying because while good for you if that’s your jam, it just doesn’t work for me. I’m so much happier when my clothes fit and when I don’t have to untag myself from memories that I’d otherwise love to keep. If anyone tells me to stop worrying about it they’re going to get cut, real talk. My body, my food, my rules.
I just don’t know what to do. And even worse, I just don’t care. I don’t care about myself enough to try and sort myself out and make myself happy. And I don’t care because I stopped caring and started living my life. Vicious circle, eh? I’ve tried star charts and graphs and rewards, and everything that has helped me before. Hell, in sixth form I lost about two stone without even really trying hard. Everyone was doing it and it was just easy.
But everyone isn’t doing it this time. This time it’s just me, alone in my flat, fighting off late night nutella sandwiches that I know won’t make me feel any better.
It’s weird because it’s not like I am lonely. I see my friends almost every day, and I love the time I get to spend alone. I’m not lonely. But something is definitely missing. There’s definitely a hole that I just can’t fill.
Maybe when I get home I can get back to being on top of my life and looking after myself.