sandwich
Adam just made a truly mouth-watering concoction: A lightly toasted whole wheat sandwich consisting of bacon with tomato that has been marinated in water, balsamic vinegar, red wine vinegar, and Supreme Salad dressing. Basically bruschetta with bacon on toast. He gave me half.
I have been having trouble with eating lately. I will eat, regardless of how much or how little, and worry. If I am reclining on the couch, I will be completely relaxed, and I will start poking and grabbing at the flesh on my abdomen, which I know will stretch taught and flat if I stand. And yet I just cannot ignore hunger pangs like I used to. The old tricks won't work. I could drink a liter of tea and still desire food. I suppose this is my body's (and brain's) way of shaking fingers at me and telling me that I hae come too far to turn back. I can only tone the muscle now, aerobics and pilates; and losing weight would be just counterproductive. Part of me wishes that there were no skinny women on television, that all women were fleshed and curvy and there were no bones. It bothers me, a tiny part of me, to know that other women my height are ten, fifteen pounds thinner, and seem fine.
The rest of me snaps, "Oh, get the fuck over it and keep eating."
My husband worships my body. My friends adore my body.
Something interesting that still has not left my mind: Last weekend, Adam and I visited Charlotte and Billy, and stayed up late on Saturday, talking. Charlotte has lost weight again; her anorexia is still not as under control as we'd like to think. She needs fifteen or twenty more pounds and she knows this. When I became insecure about my curves, she made me take off my pants so she could look at my ass and prove that there was no actual cellulite. She kept looking at me for a while as if she wanted to say something. And then, finally, she did. At one point during the conversation, she turned to me with a pleading and panicked look in her eyes. She said, "I know you haven't been eating much lately. I'm worried. You can't lose weight again. I need you. You are my inspiration. You're the reason I want to gain weight and look good. If you get sick again I don't know what I'd do. I love you so much." It floored me, this intense confession. And it has inspired me to keep going, knowing that she looks up to me like this. I want to heal.
As if confirming all this, throughout the course of the night, Adam kept staring at me as though he wanted to devour me, like a most decadent dessert.
I want to feel the way they see me. I do, every so often. Getting better, more often.
My sciatica is killing me right now. I wish I were numb.
I have been having trouble with eating lately. I will eat, regardless of how much or how little, and worry. If I am reclining on the couch, I will be completely relaxed, and I will start poking and grabbing at the flesh on my abdomen, which I know will stretch taught and flat if I stand. And yet I just cannot ignore hunger pangs like I used to. The old tricks won't work. I could drink a liter of tea and still desire food. I suppose this is my body's (and brain's) way of shaking fingers at me and telling me that I hae come too far to turn back. I can only tone the muscle now, aerobics and pilates; and losing weight would be just counterproductive. Part of me wishes that there were no skinny women on television, that all women were fleshed and curvy and there were no bones. It bothers me, a tiny part of me, to know that other women my height are ten, fifteen pounds thinner, and seem fine.
The rest of me snaps, "Oh, get the fuck over it and keep eating."
My husband worships my body. My friends adore my body.
Something interesting that still has not left my mind: Last weekend, Adam and I visited Charlotte and Billy, and stayed up late on Saturday, talking. Charlotte has lost weight again; her anorexia is still not as under control as we'd like to think. She needs fifteen or twenty more pounds and she knows this. When I became insecure about my curves, she made me take off my pants so she could look at my ass and prove that there was no actual cellulite. She kept looking at me for a while as if she wanted to say something. And then, finally, she did. At one point during the conversation, she turned to me with a pleading and panicked look in her eyes. She said, "I know you haven't been eating much lately. I'm worried. You can't lose weight again. I need you. You are my inspiration. You're the reason I want to gain weight and look good. If you get sick again I don't know what I'd do. I love you so much." It floored me, this intense confession. And it has inspired me to keep going, knowing that she looks up to me like this. I want to heal.
As if confirming all this, throughout the course of the night, Adam kept staring at me as though he wanted to devour me, like a most decadent dessert.
I want to feel the way they see me. I do, every so often. Getting better, more often.
My sciatica is killing me right now. I wish I were numb.