From Myself, For Myself.

I don't think anymore, I know I will have body issues for the rest of my life. Not resignation, only fact. It is how I come to terms with this, how I work with it, that will help me remember that I'm beautiful and desired. Etcetera.

At the party on Saturday, I wore tight-fitting jeans that fit me like a glove. Tommy Hilfiger capri jeans in a size six, bought thriftily for eight dollars. The inseam hits just below my ankle bone at a smooth twenty-five inches. The waist fits so well that there is no gap at all. The hips and thighs are snug and stretched. My round Sicilian butt looks glorious in these jeans. I also wore a thrift-bought lavender long-sleeve Gap tee shirt, tight-fitting and curve-hugging. Unfortunately, it hugged the unflattering curves too - the little roll of fat I have on my midsection is clearly visible in one photo. I know damn good and well that it is stupid, irrational, and pointless to obsess over that fucking fat roll. Almost everyone with a decent body fat percentage has it, because when you shift and lean a certain way in a tight top, you're going to have that little muffin top below the ribs. And then you'll have that bit of fat on the lower abdomen, especially if you are female-bodied. Not everyone has it, but most do. It's there. Even when I was at my skinniest - emaciated - I had it. I remember spending five years trying to get rid of it. (The concept of "flat abs" is really a myth. You can have cut abs, muscled abs, low-fat abs, but "flat" seems to be a misnomer. Even a flat abdomen has a shape and a curve.)

So I keep staring at the photo. In it, I'm leaning into Adam and I'm looking happy and content, and my excess fat is right there, poking through the shirt, and I am logically aware that nobody cares. I rationally understand that I am not a model in a magazine photo shoot, sucking in and tucking in and holding myself in precarious poses so my entire shape is smooth and streamlined.
But gods damn it... well, you know.

And the most ridiculous part? I am not actually overweight. According to my physician, I am well within my weight range for my height, frame, shape, activity level, and health. So I am obsessing over a tiny bit of flab that is nothing more than the result of not working out as much as I could. I don't need to lose a bunch of weight, I just need to tone and strengthen my muscles a bunch. I know this. I know. I know.
What I feel, however... that's something else.

And friends will tell me to stop, to quit obsessing, that I look great, that I'm fine, that compared to someone taller and heavier, I'm a tiny wee little thing. I know this, too. I know all of this. I can recite verbatim all the words that doctors have said, psychologists and nutritionists and physical therapists. I know, I know, I know.

But please, give me just this once to feel. Just this one rant to get emotional and flail and cry "Oh my gods I look so fat!" I'm not fat. I know I'm not. That's not the point. Mild body dysmorphic disorder is not logical or rational or understanding. I see things about myself that are technically not there. I see fat and red marks and blemishes and flaws and things that nobody else notices. I don't say anything to anybody, because I know they don't care. I know they see my pretty face and my awesome ass and my perky breasts and my shiny hair. "You are so gorgeous," they tell me - and I believe them with all my heart, I do, I do. But like everyone else, I still look at myself in the mirror, stripped bare, and pinpoint every single little thing I deem "wrong."
I spent my teenage years being ninety pounds. I spent the first half of my twenties being ninety pounds and also anorexic. I can't do that again. I won't do that again. But when I say out loud, "I'd like to lose ten or twelve pounds" and people stare at me like I've grown horns, I feel... I don't even know how I feel. Startled? I feel wrong. This body just feels wrong.

Maybe it's because of my skinny, organically-living mother, who once told me that "114 lbs is a little heavy for you." Right now, as I write, I weigh 119 lbs. I know what my mother will say when I see her this Thanksgiving. I know she will suggest that I lose ten or fifteen pounds. I don't know why I still hold on to that, why I think that telling her to shut up will make me break. My mother is amazing. She is nothing but loving and kind and helpful and joyful and positive.

Maybe it's because I am just so used to being so thin that even five years after I gained the weight I still can't reconcile the idea that being unable to count my ribs from across the room is a good thing. I can only see the ninety-pound girl wondering where she went. I can only think "If I just got down to under 110, I'll feel better and happier."

But I don't know what part of me thinks that more, the emotional part or the logical part.

This isn't anything more than ranting and rambling. I don't expect comments or advice or validation or anything. I realize this is a public journal and I won't lock this post, because that's just me. But I did need to get this out. Just for myself. Just so I can go back and read it and shake myself firmly and tell myself to get over it and do more strength training if I really want to do something.

Speaking of, I am now going to take a break from writing and pick up those mini kettlebell weights and do some squats.

Random Silly Thoughts

I am very happy I saved most of those Tylenol 3 pills. I had to take one about an hour ago. The migraine was becoming a threat. Thank you, codeine.
I will try the kratom next time, since it technically does the same thing, only it's a tree.

I have my husband home today and tomorrow. It feels weird. I really am so used to him being on the road or on a job out of state. But of course, it is awesome and amazing. It's like that newlywed feeling, or a honeymoon feeling if we'd had a honeymoon. And the cats are beside themselves. They haven't left him alone all day.

Also, also: Jupiter has started playing with bottle caps again! See, when he was a kitten, he decided that the plastic caps to pump applicators were his favorite toys (the kind of caps you find on sport water bottles, lotions with pump applicators, etc). The specific shape made it easy for him to hold the caps in his mouth and carry them around. We would throw them and he would fetch them. It was priceless. He stopped doing it when he became an adult cat. Now, at four years old, he's back at it. Which is great, because he needs the exercise. I don't reward him with treats, since he needs to lose weight. But he really craves attention and petting, so I give him all he can handle.
If he wants you to pet him and you're not paying attention, he'll poke you. And then he will gently nip you. And yell at you.

We have so many leftovers in the fridge. Also pumpkin is everywhere, Right now we're baking cinnamon rolls, and then we will have salad with fresh pomegranate seeds.