001. I'm Back

113.0
This morning, my scale read 113.0 pounds.
I felt my heart deflate and then melt into a sludge of red slime as my eyes looked in shock and disappointment at the disgusting number.
113.0.
I shook my head slowly at first, and then more furiously as the number began to sink in.
113.0

I knew why the scale was punishing me. I knew why because I'd been expecting it. The past two days have been undeniably terrible in terms of my dieting, and I knew full well when I was shoving those sandwiches  that hefty vegan burger, and that strawberry cheesecake shake down my throat that the scale would not be kind to me the next time I dared step onto its cold, metal plates.

113.0

The number keeps bouncing around in my head. I mentally abuse myself for letting my weight balloon up to this unforgivable number. A number 3 pounds more than the number that I promised myself I would EVER reach again. 11 pounds more than my lowest weight. 6 pounds more than my comfort weight and 5 pounds more than the number I read on the scale just 2 days ago.

5 pounds in 2 days.


5 pounds. in two. days.

2 weeks ago after seeing the dreadful 113 after a weekend of the most disgusting binge I've ever had, I promised, vowed to myself that I would never see that number again. That beginning that day, I would watch that number shrink back into the one-oh's, the numbers right between 100 and 110 that still allowed me to feel "healthy" but undeniably ultra thin and enviable at the same time. I ate nothing but fruits, soups, and low calorie energy bars. I am especially proud of myself because this past week in particular was very trying. We had a "potluck" in my History of Victorian England class, where everyone was supposed to bring foods you might find on a Victorian dinner table. People brought sandwiches  cakes, scones, muffins, all kinds of calorie packed goodies. And what did I have? 4 strawberries, which  I applauded myself for the self control I administered while everyone else was chowing down on that junk.
And at work,
someone brought in Dominos pizza one night, and banana cream pie the next.
its like they all KNEW I was restricting, and they were testing me to see how strong I was. Well I showed them. I didn't touch any of that disgusting crap.

In fact, this week I was a damned near perfect dietess
I didn't drink.
I didn't take any laxatives.
I didn't binge.
I didn't do any drugs.
and miraculously, when I stepped on the scale thursday morning, the number read 108.6

108.6

I was so emphatic that I donned my tiniest pair of american apparel disco shorts and my tiniest body hugging tank top and I strutted around my campus relishing in the envious stares of my classmates. As though 108.6 was flashing on a sign hung around my neck, and everyone could see exactly how hard I had worked to get such a number.

and now, I am 113.0

and in the 20 minutes between writing this sentence and the previous one, I just got some extremely annoying and hurtful news from a "friend" who decided to ditch our plans for the next two days and is just now telling me. After I've been waiting for this weekend for a while and got up so anxious to get the day started.
Now I just want to crawl back into bed.
with doughnuts.
and cake.
and cookies.
and everything else I denied myself for the past two weeks.

I mean, hey, I'm already at 113.
Might as well keep up the good work.








ps. This my very first post in a long time. My previous blog was KeepingThin, but I deleted it several months ago after trying to get "healthy".
anyway,
IM BACK.