Why is it that the most difficult subjects flow the most easily in my writing? Not sure what that says about me, but it is where my writing is taking me right now. Thanks for bearing with me. :)
The digital read out brings a smile to her face. This will be a good day--down two pounds from yesterday. Time to try on clothes! She throws her undies back on and heads for the closet. Those skinny jeans that have been mocking her for months--might they fit now? They hang next to the full length mirror on her bedroom door. A daily reminder to “be good.” She pulls them, reverently, from the hanger and unzips them. The denim is soft in her hands, beckoning, promising so many rewards if she can just fit her legs comfortably into the fabric.
One foot in, the denim slides up her thigh. Snug but comfortable. Now the other leg--then pull them up. Those butt-blasting moves have really helped. The jeans slip over her back side and come to rest at her waist. Only one more hurdle--zip them up. She gingerly holds the small piece of metal in her two trembling fingers. Moving, it’s moving! The sides of the zipper catch hold and bring the jeans closed over her stomach. The extra ab workouts must be helping too!
Victory is certain. A premature smile spreads across her face and she hears the voice of congratulations in her head. So many weeks, months and years of hard work and strict adherence to discipline are paying off. The zipper is all the way up. Just move the button through the hole and prove yourself. Why are you sucking in? You shouldn’t have to suck in to get the pants buttoned. The girls in the magazines wouldn’t have to suck in. You obviously haven’t worked hard enough. Why even bother trying now? Put those pants back on the hanger where they belong. You don’t deserve to be wearing them. You must be so embarrassed and ashamed. What if everyone could see you, with your muffin top hanging over the pants you’ve poured yourself into? You are truly pathetic.
The jeans are back on the hanger, though somewhat haphazardly this time. She lays on her bed and cries. The voice won’t stop.
You are really crying over this? What good will that accomplish? Get off your fat ass and go running. Do something! What a waste of time. You are just laying here, making it worse. You don’t burn calories by just laying there like a beached whale. Maybe it’s appropriate. You certainly look like one.
She can’t stand listening anymore, so she throws on a pair of baggy sweats and loose shirt, anything to draw attention away from the grotesquely over-sized and ill- proportioned body she is stuck in. She brushes her teeth and her hair but wonders why she even bothers. Her stomach growls for morning sustenance. Weakness. You can’t even control that one thing?
She makes a bargain with the voice, cutting a small apple into countless thin slices to confuse her body into thinking she is eating more than she actually is. She savors each one, shushing the voice for at least this moment. She does not need to feel guilty for eating an apple. Her rational mind takes root temporarily and reminds her of what she learned in treatment. Her body needs fuel. She eats and enjoys the tender fruit. A large glass of water will help to fill the room in her stomach.
Twenty minutes later she is at the gym. She has warmed up and is heading toward the weights. People look at her. They’re all looking. You think they can’t see what you’re hiding? Not everyone is as clueless as you. You’re not fooling anybody.
She tries to fight back. At least I am here. That has to count for something. I’m doing the work, making the effort, giving it all I have. That has to count!
The voice is not convinced. It never is. Look at the girl in the pink top. That’s what real work looks like. Look at her waist. See how she has no cottage cheese on her thighs? See how all the men look at her? They aren’t looking at you that way.
She notices the girl in pink and thinks her life must be perfect with a body like that. Her rational mind tries for a moment to give her a leg to stand on. What do I care what the men are looking at? I have a wonderful man at home who loves me just as I am.
The voice jumps mercilessly all over her. You’re really going to try that line? Really? You are beyond pathetic. Why do I even bother trying to help you?
She is ashamed and feels repentant. She pushes and pushes, moving as much weight as she can, pushing, pulling, lifting and squatting until her muscles scream. The voice rewards her with praise and motivation. She feeds off of it and wants more. A treadmill is open. She jogs over to grab it before any of those skinny girls can. They don’t need it like she does.
Quickly she raises the incline and increases the speed. Her heart is pounding and her lungs are on fire, still she pushes on. The voice screams in her mind, challenging her, commanding her. When finally the digital read out on the treadmill panel shows that she has burned a sufficient amount of calories, the voice gives her permission to get off the treadmill. Her body aches, every inch. She hobbles to the bench, sitting carefully and laying her head against the wall. She feels pride. It is worth the pain. They’re all looking at her again. They can see how hard she worked. They know that she is trying. The voice is pleased and there is peace.
At home, she showers and then takes the time to put on her make up. She has earned it. The finishing touches are done, she has accessorized her outfit and slips into a casual chic pair of day slippers. She asks the voice if she has earned lunch.
Yes. You did a great job at the gym. I know everyone was impressed with you. All those fat ladies were jealous and inspired. They wanted to be you. Today you mattered.
She appreciates the permission but doesn’t like what the voice is saying. It doesn’t make sense. But I thought you told me this morning that I was one of the ‘fat ladies.’ I remember you saying that.
The voice always has an answer. No honey. You fought. You fought hard and now you don’t have to be one of them. I am so proud of you.
She smiles, content with the answer and opens the fridge to see what her lunch choices are. As her eyes pass over each item, the voice gives its input. Yes to this and no to that. She has narrowed it down to a salad or a piece of chicken. The voice votes for the salad and the voice’s vote is the one that counts. She eats the salad, allowing herself some lite dressing since she did work really hard at the gym. The voice allows her, as it plays perfectly into its cruel little plan.
Another large glass of water and then some distraction tactics to help her ignore the hunger that still exists inside her. The voice comes to root for her and cheer her on. Now remember, you chose to eat that salad dressing. You knew it had extra calories and fat. Be careful now. You don’t want to mess up this day. Remember the jeans this morning? Come on now sweetie, go for a walk. Read a book. Lose yourself on face book . Do something, anything. So she does.
Dinner time rolls around and the hunger pangs will no longer be silenced with water or chewing gum. Her husband will be home soon and will want a real meal. He will want her to eat it with him. How are you going to handle this? Don’t let him serve it up! Make sure you have a large glass of water. And maybe put a smaller plate at your setting. Then he will think you’re eating more.
She cooks a healthy meal and throws together a large green salad. Better leave the Ranch in the fridge. You won’t be able to resist it if it’s on the table. That bowl of bread rolls should go at his end of the table, as far from you as possible. They smell good but they will not help you fit into those jeans tomorrow. You know they won’t!
Her husband comes home and wraps his arms around her. She hopes he doesn’t feel the rolls of extra skin and fat that she is trying to hide with a loose blouse. She wishes she could be comfortable with him touching her. She knows he loves her but the voice keeps sneaking doubts into her mind. He kisses her and she enjoys it. For a beautiful moment she is completely happy and the voice is banished. She will not let it in to ruin this as it has ruined so many other things.
The couple sit down to dinner. The voice is back and is angry at having been expelled. Instead of encouraging her toward ‘good’ choices, it berates her every move. With her husband looking at her adoringly though, she feels rebellious, wanting to show the voice who is in charge. She slathers two rolls with butter and doesn’t bother with the green salad. She goes to the fridge and bring the dressing to the table, pouring a generous amount on her plate to dip her bread in. She eats and then she eats more. Her stomach is satiated but her mind is not.
Her husband wants a bowl of ice crea and invites her to join him. The voice screams in her mind. Don’t! Don’t do it! You can’t do this! Stop! Stop! You idiot! Don’t you realize that you’re turning into a fat pig, horrible, horrible! You are such a waste! Go ahead, give in! I’m done with you!
She defiantly scoops more of the creamy frozen treat into her bowl. She’s gone this far, might as well add chocolate fudge and nuts. Maybe some lady finger cookies too and a spray of canned whipped topping. She looks at her masterpiece and feels powerful. She is in charge and no one can tell her what to do. Other things may be wrong in her life and she may be powerless to change them, but this, this is hers and she won’t let anyone take it from her. The whole skinny world be damned!
She eats, licking the bowl clean. Her husband cuddles with her on the couch, wanting her to watch a movie with him. She says she will in a minute. She sneaks back into the kitchen and fills her bowl again. She hides in the bathroom with the fan on and wolfs it down, not even tasting it as her stomach is stretched to bursting. She sees stars around her and can barely hold her head up, she is flying so high. She is powerful, just look at what she has done, having pushed herself to the point of pain, just as she did at the gym this morning. The voice couldn’t stop her. So there!
But oh, it hurts. She is overwhelmed with nausea and her sides ache terribly. She can’t do anything about it here. He will hear her. She can’t let him know that she has relapsed. She will never go back into treatment. Never.
She walks back to the sofa where he is waiting for her, having put together a story in her mind, willing the conversation to go her way but knowing that if she has to cause a fight, it will be worth it to end this physical discomfort.
“I’m going to take a quick shower. I’ll be right back.” She tries to hurry to the other bathroom before he can object. She isn’t fast enough.
“A shower? Now? Can I join you?” Oh how she wished that were possible. How was she supposed to get out of this without offending him?
“Not this time sweetie. I’m all gross from gardening today.” Lies had their place. She was good at lying. “How about tomorrow though?”
“Whatever.” She hears and feels his disappointment but it is nothing compared to the searing pain she feels as her stomach expands to its limits, feeling as though she will come apart at the seams at any minute.
She hurries into the bathroom, gets the tub running--it makes the most noise--and then lifts the lid and seat of the toilet. The fan is going and the movie is loud. He won’t be able to hear.
The voice saunters into the bathroom and rests next to her on the vanity. I’m glad to see you’ve come to your senses. Was it worth it?
Anger boils over inside of her. Anger at the voice, anger at herself and the whole miserable world. She forces her fingers down her throat and feels herself enveloped in endorphins, soaring to a place of relief, happiness and peace as the pain and discomfort, the anger and rage, are expelled, violently, from her body.
The voices dares to congratulate her. She screams in her mind for it to leave her be. The tears come and she knows that she has lost. Again. How did she get here? The day had went so well. She feels dirty and defeated--may as well get into the tub. She soaks and waits for her head to stop spinning. Her muscles are so tense, the warm water helps to soothe and loosen them. She lays there until the muck that had splashed up from the toilet onto her face feels too disgusting to bear another minute.
She starts the shower and hopes there is at least a few minutes of warm water left for her to thoroughly cleanse herself. She towels off, brushes her teeth, moisturizes her face and then goes to the bedroom for pajamas. Her head is pounding and her stomach is empty. Her husband is still on the couch. Should she crawl into bed and will herself to sleep so that she won’t have to fight the hunger? Or should she mend fences with the man who loves her? Maybe have a few sticks of celery to ease her growing appetite..
She loves him and needs his love in return. She cuddles with him on the couch, munching her celery. She tells herself that tomorrow will be better. The voice pats her on the back and assures her that it will be there for her.
The sun rises again and she wakes up to the skinny jeans, smiling at her from across the room.
Skinny Jeans
First thing in the morning, she runs to the bathroom, strips nude, empties her bladder in the toilet, and quickly pulls the scale from under the sink. Before stepping on, she removes her earrings and wedding ring, anything to weigh less. The moment of truth has arrived. One deep breath and she steps, one foot at a time, onto the scale. Will it be a good day or will she be miserable? She will know soon enough. The digital read out brings a smile to her face. This will be a good day--down two pounds from yesterday. Time to try on clothes! She throws her undies back on and heads for the closet. Those skinny jeans that have been mocking her for months--might they fit now? They hang next to the full length mirror on her bedroom door. A daily reminder to “be good.” She pulls them, reverently, from the hanger and unzips them. The denim is soft in her hands, beckoning, promising so many rewards if she can just fit her legs comfortably into the fabric.
One foot in, the denim slides up her thigh. Snug but comfortable. Now the other leg--then pull them up. Those butt-blasting moves have really helped. The jeans slip over her back side and come to rest at her waist. Only one more hurdle--zip them up. She gingerly holds the small piece of metal in her two trembling fingers. Moving, it’s moving! The sides of the zipper catch hold and bring the jeans closed over her stomach. The extra ab workouts must be helping too!
Victory is certain. A premature smile spreads across her face and she hears the voice of congratulations in her head. So many weeks, months and years of hard work and strict adherence to discipline are paying off. The zipper is all the way up. Just move the button through the hole and prove yourself. Why are you sucking in? You shouldn’t have to suck in to get the pants buttoned. The girls in the magazines wouldn’t have to suck in. You obviously haven’t worked hard enough. Why even bother trying now? Put those pants back on the hanger where they belong. You don’t deserve to be wearing them. You must be so embarrassed and ashamed. What if everyone could see you, with your muffin top hanging over the pants you’ve poured yourself into? You are truly pathetic.
The jeans are back on the hanger, though somewhat haphazardly this time. She lays on her bed and cries. The voice won’t stop.
You are really crying over this? What good will that accomplish? Get off your fat ass and go running. Do something! What a waste of time. You are just laying here, making it worse. You don’t burn calories by just laying there like a beached whale. Maybe it’s appropriate. You certainly look like one.
She can’t stand listening anymore, so she throws on a pair of baggy sweats and loose shirt, anything to draw attention away from the grotesquely over-sized and ill- proportioned body she is stuck in. She brushes her teeth and her hair but wonders why she even bothers. Her stomach growls for morning sustenance. Weakness. You can’t even control that one thing?
She makes a bargain with the voice, cutting a small apple into countless thin slices to confuse her body into thinking she is eating more than she actually is. She savors each one, shushing the voice for at least this moment. She does not need to feel guilty for eating an apple. Her rational mind takes root temporarily and reminds her of what she learned in treatment. Her body needs fuel. She eats and enjoys the tender fruit. A large glass of water will help to fill the room in her stomach.
Twenty minutes later she is at the gym. She has warmed up and is heading toward the weights. People look at her. They’re all looking. You think they can’t see what you’re hiding? Not everyone is as clueless as you. You’re not fooling anybody.
She tries to fight back. At least I am here. That has to count for something. I’m doing the work, making the effort, giving it all I have. That has to count!
The voice is not convinced. It never is. Look at the girl in the pink top. That’s what real work looks like. Look at her waist. See how she has no cottage cheese on her thighs? See how all the men look at her? They aren’t looking at you that way.
She notices the girl in pink and thinks her life must be perfect with a body like that. Her rational mind tries for a moment to give her a leg to stand on. What do I care what the men are looking at? I have a wonderful man at home who loves me just as I am.
The voice jumps mercilessly all over her. You’re really going to try that line? Really? You are beyond pathetic. Why do I even bother trying to help you?
She is ashamed and feels repentant. She pushes and pushes, moving as much weight as she can, pushing, pulling, lifting and squatting until her muscles scream. The voice rewards her with praise and motivation. She feeds off of it and wants more. A treadmill is open. She jogs over to grab it before any of those skinny girls can. They don’t need it like she does.
Quickly she raises the incline and increases the speed. Her heart is pounding and her lungs are on fire, still she pushes on. The voice screams in her mind, challenging her, commanding her. When finally the digital read out on the treadmill panel shows that she has burned a sufficient amount of calories, the voice gives her permission to get off the treadmill. Her body aches, every inch. She hobbles to the bench, sitting carefully and laying her head against the wall. She feels pride. It is worth the pain. They’re all looking at her again. They can see how hard she worked. They know that she is trying. The voice is pleased and there is peace.
At home, she showers and then takes the time to put on her make up. She has earned it. The finishing touches are done, she has accessorized her outfit and slips into a casual chic pair of day slippers. She asks the voice if she has earned lunch.
Yes. You did a great job at the gym. I know everyone was impressed with you. All those fat ladies were jealous and inspired. They wanted to be you. Today you mattered.
She appreciates the permission but doesn’t like what the voice is saying. It doesn’t make sense. But I thought you told me this morning that I was one of the ‘fat ladies.’ I remember you saying that.
The voice always has an answer. No honey. You fought. You fought hard and now you don’t have to be one of them. I am so proud of you.
She smiles, content with the answer and opens the fridge to see what her lunch choices are. As her eyes pass over each item, the voice gives its input. Yes to this and no to that. She has narrowed it down to a salad or a piece of chicken. The voice votes for the salad and the voice’s vote is the one that counts. She eats the salad, allowing herself some lite dressing since she did work really hard at the gym. The voice allows her, as it plays perfectly into its cruel little plan.
Another large glass of water and then some distraction tactics to help her ignore the hunger that still exists inside her. The voice comes to root for her and cheer her on. Now remember, you chose to eat that salad dressing. You knew it had extra calories and fat. Be careful now. You don’t want to mess up this day. Remember the jeans this morning? Come on now sweetie, go for a walk. Read a book. Lose yourself on face book . Do something, anything. So she does.
Dinner time rolls around and the hunger pangs will no longer be silenced with water or chewing gum. Her husband will be home soon and will want a real meal. He will want her to eat it with him. How are you going to handle this? Don’t let him serve it up! Make sure you have a large glass of water. And maybe put a smaller plate at your setting. Then he will think you’re eating more.
She cooks a healthy meal and throws together a large green salad. Better leave the Ranch in the fridge. You won’t be able to resist it if it’s on the table. That bowl of bread rolls should go at his end of the table, as far from you as possible. They smell good but they will not help you fit into those jeans tomorrow. You know they won’t!
Her husband comes home and wraps his arms around her. She hopes he doesn’t feel the rolls of extra skin and fat that she is trying to hide with a loose blouse. She wishes she could be comfortable with him touching her. She knows he loves her but the voice keeps sneaking doubts into her mind. He kisses her and she enjoys it. For a beautiful moment she is completely happy and the voice is banished. She will not let it in to ruin this as it has ruined so many other things.
The couple sit down to dinner. The voice is back and is angry at having been expelled. Instead of encouraging her toward ‘good’ choices, it berates her every move. With her husband looking at her adoringly though, she feels rebellious, wanting to show the voice who is in charge. She slathers two rolls with butter and doesn’t bother with the green salad. She goes to the fridge and bring the dressing to the table, pouring a generous amount on her plate to dip her bread in. She eats and then she eats more. Her stomach is satiated but her mind is not.
Her husband wants a bowl of ice crea and invites her to join him. The voice screams in her mind. Don’t! Don’t do it! You can’t do this! Stop! Stop! You idiot! Don’t you realize that you’re turning into a fat pig, horrible, horrible! You are such a waste! Go ahead, give in! I’m done with you!
She defiantly scoops more of the creamy frozen treat into her bowl. She’s gone this far, might as well add chocolate fudge and nuts. Maybe some lady finger cookies too and a spray of canned whipped topping. She looks at her masterpiece and feels powerful. She is in charge and no one can tell her what to do. Other things may be wrong in her life and she may be powerless to change them, but this, this is hers and she won’t let anyone take it from her. The whole skinny world be damned!
She eats, licking the bowl clean. Her husband cuddles with her on the couch, wanting her to watch a movie with him. She says she will in a minute. She sneaks back into the kitchen and fills her bowl again. She hides in the bathroom with the fan on and wolfs it down, not even tasting it as her stomach is stretched to bursting. She sees stars around her and can barely hold her head up, she is flying so high. She is powerful, just look at what she has done, having pushed herself to the point of pain, just as she did at the gym this morning. The voice couldn’t stop her. So there!
But oh, it hurts. She is overwhelmed with nausea and her sides ache terribly. She can’t do anything about it here. He will hear her. She can’t let him know that she has relapsed. She will never go back into treatment. Never.
She walks back to the sofa where he is waiting for her, having put together a story in her mind, willing the conversation to go her way but knowing that if she has to cause a fight, it will be worth it to end this physical discomfort.
“I’m going to take a quick shower. I’ll be right back.” She tries to hurry to the other bathroom before he can object. She isn’t fast enough.
“A shower? Now? Can I join you?” Oh how she wished that were possible. How was she supposed to get out of this without offending him?
“Not this time sweetie. I’m all gross from gardening today.” Lies had their place. She was good at lying. “How about tomorrow though?”
“Whatever.” She hears and feels his disappointment but it is nothing compared to the searing pain she feels as her stomach expands to its limits, feeling as though she will come apart at the seams at any minute.
She hurries into the bathroom, gets the tub running--it makes the most noise--and then lifts the lid and seat of the toilet. The fan is going and the movie is loud. He won’t be able to hear.
The voice saunters into the bathroom and rests next to her on the vanity. I’m glad to see you’ve come to your senses. Was it worth it?
Anger boils over inside of her. Anger at the voice, anger at herself and the whole miserable world. She forces her fingers down her throat and feels herself enveloped in endorphins, soaring to a place of relief, happiness and peace as the pain and discomfort, the anger and rage, are expelled, violently, from her body.
The voices dares to congratulate her. She screams in her mind for it to leave her be. The tears come and she knows that she has lost. Again. How did she get here? The day had went so well. She feels dirty and defeated--may as well get into the tub. She soaks and waits for her head to stop spinning. Her muscles are so tense, the warm water helps to soothe and loosen them. She lays there until the muck that had splashed up from the toilet onto her face feels too disgusting to bear another minute.
She starts the shower and hopes there is at least a few minutes of warm water left for her to thoroughly cleanse herself. She towels off, brushes her teeth, moisturizes her face and then goes to the bedroom for pajamas. Her head is pounding and her stomach is empty. Her husband is still on the couch. Should she crawl into bed and will herself to sleep so that she won’t have to fight the hunger? Or should she mend fences with the man who loves her? Maybe have a few sticks of celery to ease her growing appetite..
She loves him and needs his love in return. She cuddles with him on the couch, munching her celery. She tells herself that tomorrow will be better. The voice pats her on the back and assures her that it will be there for her.
The sun rises again and she wakes up to the skinny jeans, smiling at her from across the room.
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