First Rule: Love Yourself.
Jul. 4th, 2012 03:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
brightlotusmoonCut for currently uncharacteristic whining and grumping about menstrual weight gain, bloating, body measurements, and numbers. Because damn it, I need to let this out somehow.
See, I was skinny all my life. My mother made sure I never weighed more than 95 lbs, at 4'10". Which makes sense, because I was, like, 4'10". but I had inherited more Capello and Pulari stuff than Lenkowsky and Troihoff. That meant that no matter how skinny I looked, my hips were meant to be wide and curved and my short body was genetically built to be a pin-up centerfold female, like Betty and Marilyn.
Imagine how my mind began twisting when I became anorexic and my hip measurements stubbornly refused to drop below 35 inches. My waist? Oh, that got down to 22. My chest? 32. My hips? Screw social conventions, I was hippy as fuck and that was that.
This week is my Shark Week. Which means bloating, weight gain, fluid retention, and bloating. I can't wear any of my jeans or slacks without wanting to cry, because suddenly I've gained two inches of hip and waist that are starting to warp me. 37 inches of hip I can handle. 39? Fuck no. A 27 inch waist? Not at my height. Am I fat now? I mean, for my height? Oh gods, is this me now? It's going to be like this forever, isn't it? I'm going to have to buy a load of pants in a bigger size, aren't I? This is going to last forever, isn't it?
This is ridiculous, isn't it? I am being ridiculous and insane, aren't I? This is just the anorexia scars making me crazy, right? I'll feel better after Shark Week, right? Just because I can't button my jeans or slacks now doesn't mean I won't be able to in a few days, right? I'm just pouty and grumpy and grouchy. It's okay. I'll be fine.
While I was digging through my slacks drawers yesterday to toss smaller pants in the closet, I found pants labeled Size Zero. My gods, those are so many years old. I remember when fitting into a pair of Size 2 pants was impossible because I was too skinny for a fucking size 2.
Augh.
Every time I hear a short petite woman over 5'0" whine and freak out about being over 110 lbs, I bite my tongue very hard, unless said woman is anorexic or in ED recovery. I need to restrain myself from snapping "Really? How would you feel about 125 lbs, huh? Be happy with what you have. You're fine." Because 110 is where I want to be, anywhere between 101 and 111. And it's hard right now. Working on it, of course.
Body health and muscle health doesn't happen overnight. I'm over 30; my body is changing. And I am not helping myself by mentally snarling at people who whine about their perceived imperfect weight issues when they have absolutely none. I am also not helping myself by imagining my mother telling me that I was becoming overweight because I weighed more than 110. She essentially wants me to be as thin as I can because for her, thin means healthy. I love her so so much, but I really do think she has a mild eating disorder of some kind.
I am fine. My health is fine. My doctors say I'm fine. I eat small portions of healthy food daily with occasional small portions of junk food. Nobody can force me to eat or exercise a certain way.
And that's what I tell myself during my mental bitchslaps to myself.
I'm fine. I'll be fine. I'm also stressing too much about next week's hearing.
Dear Joanna: BREATHE. FUCKING RELAX ALREADY, GODS ABOVE AND AROUND, JUST BREATHE.
See, I was skinny all my life. My mother made sure I never weighed more than 95 lbs, at 4'10". Which makes sense, because I was, like, 4'10". but I had inherited more Capello and Pulari stuff than Lenkowsky and Troihoff. That meant that no matter how skinny I looked, my hips were meant to be wide and curved and my short body was genetically built to be a pin-up centerfold female, like Betty and Marilyn.
Imagine how my mind began twisting when I became anorexic and my hip measurements stubbornly refused to drop below 35 inches. My waist? Oh, that got down to 22. My chest? 32. My hips? Screw social conventions, I was hippy as fuck and that was that.
This week is my Shark Week. Which means bloating, weight gain, fluid retention, and bloating. I can't wear any of my jeans or slacks without wanting to cry, because suddenly I've gained two inches of hip and waist that are starting to warp me. 37 inches of hip I can handle. 39? Fuck no. A 27 inch waist? Not at my height. Am I fat now? I mean, for my height? Oh gods, is this me now? It's going to be like this forever, isn't it? I'm going to have to buy a load of pants in a bigger size, aren't I? This is going to last forever, isn't it?
This is ridiculous, isn't it? I am being ridiculous and insane, aren't I? This is just the anorexia scars making me crazy, right? I'll feel better after Shark Week, right? Just because I can't button my jeans or slacks now doesn't mean I won't be able to in a few days, right? I'm just pouty and grumpy and grouchy. It's okay. I'll be fine.
While I was digging through my slacks drawers yesterday to toss smaller pants in the closet, I found pants labeled Size Zero. My gods, those are so many years old. I remember when fitting into a pair of Size 2 pants was impossible because I was too skinny for a fucking size 2.
Augh.
Every time I hear a short petite woman over 5'0" whine and freak out about being over 110 lbs, I bite my tongue very hard, unless said woman is anorexic or in ED recovery. I need to restrain myself from snapping "Really? How would you feel about 125 lbs, huh? Be happy with what you have. You're fine." Because 110 is where I want to be, anywhere between 101 and 111. And it's hard right now. Working on it, of course.
Body health and muscle health doesn't happen overnight. I'm over 30; my body is changing. And I am not helping myself by mentally snarling at people who whine about their perceived imperfect weight issues when they have absolutely none. I am also not helping myself by imagining my mother telling me that I was becoming overweight because I weighed more than 110. She essentially wants me to be as thin as I can because for her, thin means healthy. I love her so so much, but I really do think she has a mild eating disorder of some kind.
I am fine. My health is fine. My doctors say I'm fine. I eat small portions of healthy food daily with occasional small portions of junk food. Nobody can force me to eat or exercise a certain way.
And that's what I tell myself during my mental bitchslaps to myself.
I'm fine. I'll be fine. I'm also stressing too much about next week's hearing.
Dear Joanna: BREATHE. FUCKING RELAX ALREADY, GODS ABOVE AND AROUND, JUST BREATHE.
