(no subject)
One simple conversation is all it takes to bring me to tears, to keep me up at night, to turn this body once again into a filthy, fat, wretched thing... How could I ever explain to him how much I hurt? I try so hard not to be the typical girlfriend, never to be clingy or emotionally dependent, never to argue, and above all, never to feel fat. So when I jokingly comment on the standard attire of girls at clubs these days -- "lingerie and skin tight jeans," and he comments to me "I dunno, your jeans are pretty tight," I could never let him see me cry...and maybe he didn't notice when I kissed him goodnight that I felt like screaming. When I left the hospital, these jeans did not even stay up, and now, they're about average. I don't have to unbutton them except for the top button to get them on or off, I can sit indian-style in them, they sit just below my hipbones...isn't that how jeans are supposed to fit? They are slightly bigger than my frame is, so they hang neatly against my body, skimming it without pinching. And yet, that little phrase "well your jeans are kinda tight," continues to echo in my mind and I feel like someone is punching me over and over. Like I have to lose weight now, be that sick skinny thing I was last spring just to spite him or something, even though I know his comment probably meant nothing...after all, he considers anything tight that differs from the baggy jeans guys wear...But what if he really does think I'm fat? I can never, ever have this conversation with him, and so instead I dwell on it, decide now I need to start working out, lose weight, until they are baggy like last spring...It's like I can suddenly feel the fat stomach of mine growing, despite the growling of my stomach. There will be no "night-time snack" tonight, no not tonight, not when I feel this horrid. How in the world am I supposed to eat tomorrow? When all I can think of is that one comment which he has probably already forgotten about.
And as he pulled out of the driveway, I was sitting on the steps smoking a cigarette and crying, but smiled and waved when all I really wanted was to run out and stop him, and tell him what I was feeling, get some sort of reassurance from him. But I can never do that. Despite my efforts, I am the biggest cliche of all. I just hide it excellently.
And as he pulled out of the driveway, I was sitting on the steps smoking a cigarette and crying, but smiled and waved when all I really wanted was to run out and stop him, and tell him what I was feeling, get some sort of reassurance from him. But I can never do that. Despite my efforts, I am the biggest cliche of all. I just hide it excellently.