“I am starting to feel better.”
Yesterday? Not so much.
The day started off badly: My pants didn’t fit.
Well, technically I could pull them on and button them. But since the twenty pounds I’ve gained is mostly in my legs, the fabric stuck to my legs more like sausage casing than clothing.
Mortified, I peeled them off and put on what I call my “mu-mu” – a long, flowy dress I ordered off Amazon, and dragged myself to work.
It was a day of battling the demon of self-hate all day:
- You’re fat.
- Everybody’s talking about how fat you are.
- You’ve gained so much weight … you’re huge!
- You’re never going to stop binging!
I could go on but I think you get it.
Fortunately I know none of these thoughts are truth. It’s the diseased part of my brain trying to get me to eat again … ironically because I’ve gained weight from binging.
If that isn’t the ultimate definition of insanity, I don’t know what is.
But I didn’t binge. I went for a walk on my lunch break. I made phone calls. I journaled. I met with friends later.
And I went to bed binge-free.
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