LJ Idol Week 17 (1 of 5): Salad Days

[flipflop_diva]

There is a ritual I have performed most every morning since I was nineteen years old and a sophomore in college. I wake up, stumble to the bathroom, and before I eat anything, or sip even a bit of water, I pull out the scale from whatever spot I keep it in and step on. Then I stare down at the numbers and wait for it to finally settle on one.

For the longest time, the number on that scale dictated how my day would go. The number went down, and it was a day of victory, a cause of celebration. I would feel good about myself, so proud of the progress I was making.

The number went up and it was the complete opposite. Depression, frustration, constant scoldings of myself because how could you eat that second piece of toast or why didn’t you throw up that piece of pizza faster, before the calories could seep in?

That was my life for three years in college. Rushing to bathrooms after meals. Making excuses not to eat with my friends. Living on salads when I did go with them. Checking and re-checking to make sure I could still fit into the jeans I wore in high school.

I stood in front of the mirror for hours, hating what I was seeing. I imagined losing five pounds, losing ten, losing twenty.

My friends would joke about how I was the only one in our friend group who didn’t need to lose weight. I would smile and laugh, but inside I would think how very wrong they were.

•••

Tiffani pops her head into my room, a smile on her face. “We’re heading to dinner,” she says.

“Ohhh.” I look up from the essay for my literature class I’ve been working on for two straight hours now. “I told Kim I’d wait and go with her.”

“Okay! Maybe we’ll see you there!” Tiffani’s head disappears and there is a soft clicking of the dorm room door closing.

I look toward Kim’s side of the room. I know very well she is staying over at her boyfriend’s, and she’s not coming back tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow morning.

My stomach grumbles.

I ignore it and turn all my attention back to my essay.

•••

I’ve always told myself I never had an eating disorder. But I did have disordered eating. It’s not something I talk about, just a secret that is buried far behind me in the past. The only person who knew was my college roommate, Kim — Kim, who was anorexic. Kim, who spent six months in a clinic because her eating disorder was too severe. Kim, who came back to college better but relapsed a month later.

We enabled each other, Kim and I. She just went further. I was too afraid to get caught. Too afraid other people would find out. So I’d splurge on pizza when it was someone’s birthday, eat meals with my family when I was on break, tell myself I would make up for it later.

Today I know I’m lucky. That it didn’t go further. That it wasn’t worse.

It got better when I graduated, when I moved away from Kim. But it was always there. The days I wouldn’t eat just to prove to myself I could. The feeling of pride when the number on the scale would dip. The panic when the number on the scale went up.

But I learned how to keep the number mostly stable, and for years, that was enough.

•••

I stand in front of the open fridge. Condiments and a container of milk stare back at me. I was supposed to have gone to the store the day before, but I was too lazy.

I glance toward the drawer with the piles of takeout menus. I think about the fast-food restaurants that are less than a five-minute drive away.

I close the fridge and go back to the living room, plop down on the couch and turn on the tv. My stomach rumbles, but I ignore it. It’s just one night.

I step on the scale the next morning, smile when the numbers are lower than the day before. I feel refreshed, energized. I also feel guilty.

“It’s okay every once in a while,” I whisper to myself. But that afternoon, I go to the store.

•••

The numbers on the scale took on a new meaning when I got pregnant. For the first time in longer than I could remember, the numbers going up were a good thing. They meant the baby was growing. They meant my belly was growing.

I was worried at first. Of how I would handle it, of how I would feel.

I tried to embrace it. I had my husband take a picture of me every week, so we could watch my belly grow. I wore looser clothes and even cheered the day my jeans wouldn’t fasten anymore.

I still stepped on the scale every day, still felt that flicker of fear when the numbers went up faster than I wanted them to, but I didn’t panic, didn’t cry. It was something that needed to happen, and I accepted that.

And then the baby was born. And I stepped on the scale the day we got home and it was more than when I had left for the hospital.

Swelling, my doctor had said. It will go away in four to six weeks. Breastfeeding, the articles all said. It will make the pounds drop off.

So I didn’t worry. I stepped off the scale and stepped back on the next day. The numbers dropped. The next day they dropped more. Day after day for a week. Until they didn’t drop anymore.

They still haven’t dropped. It’s been four months. I weight sixteen pounds more than I did when I got pregnant. The swelling has gone away. The baby gets breastfed. But the numbers on the scale won’t move.

I don’t like the way I look when I look in the mirror. The clothes I could wear before I got pregnant still don’t fit. My jeans won’t button. My shirts make me look like I’m still pregnant. My husband says I look fine, cute even, but I don’t believe him. I don’t feel like me.

•••

I stand in front of the fridge. It would be so easy to close the door and walk away. To skip breakfast, to skip lunch, to suggest to my husband that we eat bigger meals for lunch and salads for dinner. The pounds might drop off, the way they used to. I could go back to looking like me again. Maybe even before summer.

Over in her pack-n-play, the baby stirs, begins to make noises, cute little sounds like she’s talking to herself.

Breastfeeding isn’t taking off the pounds like it’s supposed to, but not eating will make my milk supply dwindle. Not eating will hurt my daughter.

I reach into the fridge, pull out the leftover pasta, pop it into the microwave.

I’m not happy with how I look, but in this moment, love wins over fear.







non-fiction.




Thank you for reading! This was written for Week 17 of the therealljidol. We each had to write five entries this week. If you would like to read the entries from the other contestants, you can find them here!

Comments

[sonreir]

I've struggled with EDNOS since I was in my teens. My partner and I are planning to start trying for kids within the next year. I've wondered a lot about what pregnancy will look like and what toll it will take on me. Reading what you've written about it just put that fear to rest. This is wonderfully done. Thank you for being brave enough to share.

[adoptedwriter]

plateaus suck but know your bone density and blood volume is up (which are good things). I got back to within 5 lbs both times, but it took 9-12 months. Just enjoy the baby.

[rayaso]

This really brought home, again, the problems with weight loss. This was so well written, interweaving the parts. The ending was especially good!

[dmousey]

Love can conquer many things. but playing the yo-yo game will not make the weight come off. However it will make you sick. I understand this because your post could've been written by me 30years ago.

If you can manage it somehow, and if you don't mind me saying so **hug** please, please, seek counseling. 😊🐁🐭✌

[halfshellvenus]

SO much of this hit home. I didn't control my weight as successfully as you did, but I know all the steps to this awful dance.

The weight gain was the scariest thing about getting pregnant, because I knew how hard it would be to take it off. It took a year for the first child, and for the second... still struggling. And he's nineteen.

[itsjust_c]

It's very brave of you to share this non-fictional part of your life. Thank you.

"love wins over fear."

That's an exceedingly powerful and good concluding statement and I really hope you manage to continue to remind yourself of it xx

[babydramatic_1950]

I identified with this (in part) a great deal. (You will see in my entry for "Vigilance"). I was a moderately overweight child (my mother was obese, so I don't have great genes in this area). I had a BMI of around 25 from about age 11 on. Instead of focusing on fitness and nutrition, I tried to diet. I lost and regained 30 pounds four times between the ages of 12 and 18. I ruined my chances of getting a good start to a singing career because I started smoking when someone said it would spoil my appetite. I became addicted to diet pills and then alcohol. After I got sober, I figured if I had been used to eating very little drunk, I could eat that little sober. I was able to maintain a weight of 135 (at 5 foot 6) but I was so hungry most of the time that I couldn't focus. I spent years in idiot jobs where I could go on autopilot. I spent the hour before lunch in a quasi-blackout. I certainly didn't do any work to speak of. If someone crossed me in any way I screamed at them (Amy and the salad fork? I've been there; wonder if she's a chronic dieter?) After taking on a challenging management position in my mid 40s where I needed to be at the top of my game, I finally "let" myself gain 10 pounds (remember: even being "slighly overweight" I'm below my genetically programmed set point) by eating protein and fat rich snacks between meals. Whether or not I thought I looked better, I felt sooooo much better. It was easier to stay "on task". I was nicer and calmer. Now that I've shrunk to five foot two I have a BMI of 26 and I don't give a damn. A size that felt elephantine at 12 is considered "trim" at 68. I'm actually thinner than most women my age now.