This is ridiculous. I have allowed this pile of pants to taunt me and delineate my self-worth. Several months ago, I had to pull out a few pairs of jeans from storage. They remain on this chair because they are, solely for me, not an acceptable size. I cannot allow them to occupy the space reserved for the correct size of pants. The pants residing in my drawer are the ones I am sure that if I could just [fill in the blank] I would be able to wear. The pants on the chair are evidence of binge eating during depression, the only form of self-harm left to me.
Being somewhat intelligent, I realize that this type of thinking is not how I should base my value. I have read all the body positive information on which I can lay my eyes. I do not use this same measurement on others, it is strictly personal. Whatever size you are is not an accurate measure of what kind of human you are, it’s only applicable to me.
Because my BMI is 20 lbs higher than “healthy,” I have tried to convince myself that the only reason I want to lose weight (this time, anyway) is because I want to be healthy. Placing blame on outside influences seems like a cop-out. As far as I’m concerned how I was raised, why I was loved, or how the media portrays the “perfect” woman, should not enter into the equation. But when I see how my own self-image has affected my daughters, I can’t help but wonder if how I view myself is somewhat based on the example of my anorexic mother. Yesterday, in my psychiatrist’s office, I said “I’m beginning to think my depression is not a medication issue, but a result of self-loathing.” But then I laughed, like it was a joke, and I took the prescription for an increase in my antidepressant to the pharmacy.
When I wipe the steam off of the mirror after I take my shower, it’s with the hope that what will be revealed will not be the same thing I saw the day before. This kind of thinking is ludicrous. I don’t understand why I can’t change how I feel about myself. I don’t understand why I can’t see the beautiful, kind, loving, caring, smart person that others try to convince me exists. I don’t understand why I can’t get those stupid pants to stop yelling at me.