I seriously thought that losing a hundred pounds would fix most of my insecurities. I mean, come on, I’m a size 6 for the love of God. But guess what? It just doesn’t work that way and I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever stop dealing with body issues.
Years ago, when I struggled with heavy depression, it was usually the late nights that saw the severity of my breakdowns. I’d be fine mostly in the day, but something about the dark made my brain go into freak out mode.
Well thankfully, it’s been years since I struggled so much. But every now and then, something snaps in my head and go from a rational adult to a 13 year old. Lucky me.
Last night was a shit night. I get a random thought in my head and I go into a tail spin. It’s ridiculous really, but it’s like once I’m on the crazy train, I can’t turn around until I reach my destination. So basically, I’m a whack job and I was a whack job back when I was a teenager and I’ll probably be a whack job when I’m old and wilted. And I made sure to remind J of this as I was crying because really, he shouldn’t be surprised anymore. But it still sucks and I do feel bad for him.
I don’t know about you, but when I feel completely out of control, I like to believe that there is something my husband could do that would fix me. I used to think that if he said the right words, I wouldn’t hate that I was nearly 250 pounds. Well, he tried, and shocker, it never worked.
So now I’m 150 pounds. I’m no longer obese. But the sad truth is, I feel just as gross naked now as I did then. It sucks and I want to lie and say that it’s not true. But it is. And I’ve talked about this a million times but it doesn’t seem to change. I knew the loose skin was going to be a problem. I knew I’d need surgery. But I still feel surprised. I think I was expecting the worst but hoping for the best. And I secretly thought that it wouldn’t be as bad as I imagined it.
But it is. It so is.
And yes, I should just remember that my health is improved and yes, I should remember that my body isn’t everything. But it totally pisses me off that I cannot control this. I cannot make my body look the way I want it to. I don’t like to feel helpless.
So I’ve totally and completely given up. At least, it feels and appears that way. At 130 pounds (post-weight loss), I was muscular and super fit and feeling great about myself in clothes. Now that I’m back up to 150, I’m flabbier and feeling like shit and looking like a stuffed pig in anything that isn’t baggy. But I can’t get myself to suck it up and work back down to 130. Because I know that at 130, I still felt disgusting. I plastered on a smile and felt like I could fool the world with my size 2 jeans. But I couldn’t fool my husband. And I couldn’t fool myself. Sans clothes, my skin sagged and jiggled. And I still felt ugly.
So here I am and I’m mad. I’m pissed at myself and the universe. I’m pissed that I let myself go for so long that I can’t fix it. I will never look “normal”. I will always and forever be jealous of girls with perfect bodies. I know it isn’t everything. I know it shouldn’t matter. But it does and it’s mostly because I can’t have it. No matter how hard I try. And I’m pissed at the universe because I don’t know why perfect female bodies have to be shoved in our face every time we flip on the TV or read a magazine or go to a damn football game. Why is it made to be such a big deal to have tight and perfect skin? And why do girls feel the need to flaunt themselves?
Would I not be so obsessed if those things were different? Probably. Because I have issues. And they aren’t anyone else’s fault. They are all mine. And I just don’t know how to fix them.
I don’t want to spend the rest of my eternity worrying about my husband comparing me to every female he may ever come across. Am I the only one who does this? I feel like I am. I’ve never understood how some wives are perfectly fine with their spouses visiting strip clubs. Why does that not bother you? I am soooo not judging either. I’m desperate to know why you don’t care. Because I want to be that way. Not because J is itching to hit a strip club. Just because my insecurities run so deep that it’s absolutely affecting my daily life. And if I could get to the point where I didn’t care if he stared at naked chicks dancing on a pole, I think I’d be cured of my (relatively) tame day-to-day issues.
Would I be insecure if I didn’t have the skin issues? Of course I’d love to believe that I wouldn’t be. But would it always be something? Would I be worried about my plentiful moles, my fast growing Italian-black leg hair, or my teenage-boy acne? Is it always something?
How do you become secure? I obviously haven’t figured it out yet. I know that I feel better about myself when I’m exercising. But the fears never go away. And my husband is about as good as it gets at appreciating me. It’s not as if he has ever compared me to another girl. We don’t have Top-Ten-Celebrities-I’d-Do lists. Why can’t I just appreciate beauty for beauty and not take it as an attack on myself?
The ironic part of this is that I don’t crave a size 0 body with 0% body fat. I like curves and I’m happy to have meat on my bones. But I don’t want to jiggle and I don’t want to sag. I know that it happens to all of us when we get (much) older. But I’m not yet 30 and I think I should have the body I want for atleast the next few decades.
I will have my skin surgery and I hope that helps me. But if losing 100 pounds didn’t help it much, you can see why I’m scared. Once my body is riddled with scars, will that be my new focus?
I do realize that I’m a big whiny ass cry baby. But it helps me to write things out. And as much as I feel alone, I know I can’t be. And part of my shame is feeling like I am alone. I know that my fears are irrational and should not affect me the way they do. I beat myself up for being ridiculous but as you can probably imagine, knowing that something isn’t logical doesn’t make you automatically change. It just doesn’t work that way. If it did, I’d be damn near perfect.
I am a mess. I thought I was better. I thought that with my huge life transformation that I’d cure myself. I’m not better. I can be upbeat and I can look at the bright side of shit happenings, and I know more now than I did then. But I am still broken.
Will I always be?