When did I get so old? (I just have to get this out of me right now…)
s I sit in the bathtub and let the water run over me and think about, imagine, maybe even dream of what it would be like if I had simply slit my wrists… bleeding out. And this, right here is why suicide is selfish: I don’t think about how my parents will feel, how my family, friends, significant other will feel. I don’t think about the impact that it could have on someone who considers me a friend, or might even depend on me. I don’t think about the burden of the funeral, all of my things… financial stability for Kaitlin (and/or whomever I was with at the time…)
Regardless of the people I have lost to it, regardless of the times I have spent talking dear friends down and trying to find them help, regardless of my work in the mental health industry. All I can think about is how *I* feel. How much I hate myself and the awful things I do or have done, how tired I am of myself. How I have spent my entire, ENTIRE, life struggling with my weight. I purposefully hold myself back from outings, relationships, experiences because of how much I loathe myself – how much I am embarrassed to be myself.
I can’t count the amount of times I have told myself “Oh I will just keep these jeans because I want to fit into them again”. Or the times I have been a crying mess on the kitchen floor because I’m fucking HUNGRY and I can’t control it and I’m afraid to eat because I just pig out and get fatter and fatter.
I have thrown away every dream I have ever had for the last ten years because I’m too fat to dress like that, I’m too fat for that hair do, I’m too fat to jump into the pit at a concert, I’m too fat to talk to that person, I’m too fat for that job.
I constantly make fat jokes (kind of like fat Amy from Pitch Perfect
), I constantly feel like a piece of shit if I buy chips at the gas station, I constantly feel like I have to shop at a tent and awning shop for clothes, and I constantly make excuses as to why I can’t do things, which are bogus and half the time are because I can’t wear jeans I have to wear sweats or leggings or something. Fat clothes. I constantly let my mind tell me that every single person I pass is looking at me and judging me for my weight (which, by the way, is outrageous, I saw a video shows exactly how much a person you pass paying attention to you, but I can’t find it tonight, so when I do I will upload it. Oh. And most people aren’t that shallow. HEL-lo!)
The irony about all of this is that I am one of the most healthy eaters that I know. Yes I eat garbage sometimes. Why? Because I am a human being and sometimes a girl just wants some damned cheetos WITH nacho cheese, that’s why! But the reality is I eat a diet that is very close to the one
I put myself on (the difference being that I’m not going to stray, I’m going to be specific, and I’m going to be working out like a mofo).
So why am *I* upwards of 200 lbs, covered in wrinkles, getting a talk from my brother about his concern, and crying in my kitchen?
This isn’t a pity me post… I love to cook, I love to eat, I love to smoke cigarettes (though I’ve quit), I love to drink alcohol (though I rarely do)…
It is my fault. I am doing what I can to rectify my situation, but I am so mad at myself for always feeling that way, for always being obsessed with weight instead of just being happy. I found a picture of myself at the age of 24 that freaked me the hell out because I looked so, so good. I can remember when I took that picture and how much I hated myself, that whole time I felt like a tub of lard, that was at a particularly dark point of self loathing. I just want to go to that girl and slap her and tell her she’s beautiful and she should love herself, it’s okay to eat that piece of cake at that party, it’s okay to eat in front of people, for crying out loud! Get a grip!
I don’t understand why I thought that about myself. The worst part is that around that period of time I went through the same emotional process finding pictures of myself at 17. So what now? When I’m 35 I’ll look at pictures from now and feel the same way?
I. Don’t. Think. So.
I’ve said it before, but I am so over this. I am so over hating myself and hurting all of the time. It takes time, I know, and I promised myself I would be patient, and I would give in now and again for the sake of a positive outcome. I am doing so much to mend my life. I did start playing Roller Derby, I did go back to school, I am getting myself out of debt, I’m working on my weight, I quit smoking, and I’m journaling with my roommate to combat this depression that won’t go away.
Yes this post is real. It’s depressing. It’s “facts” from my perspective, but it’s not intended to be negative. It’s my affirmation to myself that I am going to be better. I am better than this. I will not celebrate my 30th birthday hating who I am. This time I mean it. It’s not just fluff to make myself feel better on a temporary basis. I don’t even care if I have to do all of this alone and no one runs with me, and my girlfriend and my roommate make fun of my bur-pees, and I get razzed for not eating meat or only eating the salad at Olive Garden.
I. Do. Not. Care. Because I am reclaiming MY life.
Mom, I know you are reading this, and I am sorry if it hurts you to see all that horrible stuff I put at the beginning. I love you. You are the most amazing mother a person could ask for. I tell people all of the time that my mother is the most supportive person on the planet and they should be lucky enough to know her. All the good that I am today is because of you. You are my role model and my hero.
To everyone else – I don’t need pity. I don’t need someone to talk to me about the thoughts that go through my head. I know they are not healthy, I know they are not right. I am working on it. It’s a struggle and will always be one, but I am in a good place right now. I just needed to get this out of me. It’s rhetoric. No response necessary.
Thank you for your support.