Content warning: This post deals with eating disorders, and may be triggering for some readers. This story is simply one woman’s story, and should not be mistaken for medical advice.
See that picture? It’s a picture of my toes. Pointing at a blank spot. A blank spot where my scales have sat since we renovated the bathroom about 12 years ago.
For as long as I can remember, I have weighed myself first thing every morning — day in, day out. Like clockwork. A special, comforting routine. I’d climb out of bed, empty bladder, strip naked and stare at the fateful number.
And for as long as I can remember, I have known this is a terrible thing to do. When the numbers go up I panic and make stupid decisions about my eating. When the numbers go down I fear they’ll go back up then I make stupid decisions about my eating. There is no win.
There is no time when I look at the numbers and think, 'Awesome!' There are definitely times when I look back and wish I’d appreciated numbers, but I never appreciate them at the time. They are always a stepping stone to a magical place that doesn’t exist — the skinny “equals” happy land…
When I started my recovery course about five weeks ago, I made a commitment to drop from daily to weekly weighing. I couldn’t cope with the thought of getting rid of them at the time. I had only in recent months contemplated the thought of not weighing myself daily. Many tiny baby steps.
This morning I weighed in. I’m still not happy with it, but I didn’t feel particularly bad about it. I then jumped online and caught up on all the recovery group chat overnight and noticed a lot of discussion about scales.
There was some very tough love tossed around — in a beautiful, gentle, empathetic manner — but it was still tough love. And while I hadn’t been the original poster of the scales question, I knew everything being talked about related to me completely…