I know I've been kind of absent lately. Partly it's just busyness, partly I have nothing of interest to say, and partly I'm just feeling kind of discouraged. I'm trying really hard not to be so focused on what I look like, or how that makes me feel, but with limited success.
I "know" that there are more important things in the world than the circumference of my thighs.
I "know" that there are beautiful thin women and beautiful fat women.
I "know" that a person's value doesn't lie in whether or not they're physically attractive.
I "know" that no-one's ever the most beautiful person in the room. If you have the most beautiful hair, she'll have the most beautiful eyes, and she'll have the most beautiful smile, and she'll have the best legs, and, and, and...
I know, I know, I know!
But I'm just struggling to rest in that knowledge. There's always this little voice that says, "but what other option do you have? What can you offer the world if not your body? You've no talents, you've no charm, or wit, or kindness to give." And I think, "maybe she's right. If I don't get this one thing right, I'll be nothing."
In other news, I went to see the psychiatrist last week. She didn't give me a bipolar diagnosis, though she did place me on the bipolar spectrum, around the 'rapid mood cycling' mark. That's ok; I was just so relieved to be officially not diagnosed. Later in the week, though, she called to say that the consultant had looked through her notes and wanted me to go for an appointment with him, so that he could "clarify the diagnosis". Needless to say, that was discouraging news, and I'm ashamed to admit that I reacted really badly to it, which undid some of the recent efforts that A and I have been putting in to trust / communication in the marriage.
This has taken some of the focus off of general weight fears, and prompted me to invest a little less in making myself pretty and a little more in making my marriage / day-to-day life work. It's pretty shallow to insist that the thing you most urgently need to fix is your muffin-top, when there's clearly something wrong with the whole way that your mind works.
But that doesn't make it any more fun to watch yourself getting fatter and fatter and fatter and fatter.
I'm not as depressed as this post makes me sound. Life, for the most part, is good.
I "know" that there are more important things in the world than the circumference of my thighs.
I "know" that there are beautiful thin women and beautiful fat women.
I "know" that a person's value doesn't lie in whether or not they're physically attractive.
I "know" that no-one's ever the most beautiful person in the room. If you have the most beautiful hair, she'll have the most beautiful eyes, and she'll have the most beautiful smile, and she'll have the best legs, and, and, and...
I know, I know, I know!
But I'm just struggling to rest in that knowledge. There's always this little voice that says, "but what other option do you have? What can you offer the world if not your body? You've no talents, you've no charm, or wit, or kindness to give." And I think, "maybe she's right. If I don't get this one thing right, I'll be nothing."
In other news, I went to see the psychiatrist last week. She didn't give me a bipolar diagnosis, though she did place me on the bipolar spectrum, around the 'rapid mood cycling' mark. That's ok; I was just so relieved to be officially not diagnosed. Later in the week, though, she called to say that the consultant had looked through her notes and wanted me to go for an appointment with him, so that he could "clarify the diagnosis". Needless to say, that was discouraging news, and I'm ashamed to admit that I reacted really badly to it, which undid some of the recent efforts that A and I have been putting in to trust / communication in the marriage.
This has taken some of the focus off of general weight fears, and prompted me to invest a little less in making myself pretty and a little more in making my marriage / day-to-day life work. It's pretty shallow to insist that the thing you most urgently need to fix is your muffin-top, when there's clearly something wrong with the whole way that your mind works.
But that doesn't make it any more fun to watch yourself getting fatter and fatter and fatter and fatter.
I'm not as depressed as this post makes me sound. Life, for the most part, is good.
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