Lately my posts are very few and far between; I only write when I find inspiration in something I come across or realize in one day. I should probably try to write more, but it’s hard to think of what to write when there’s nothing on my mind.
Anyway, I decided to look over my pictures on Facebook from my time at Remuda, hoping that now I will be able to look back on myself and see how unhealthy I was. When I was there I did not think of myself as thinner than the other women. Now I can see I was one of the frailest. My clothes wore me, I did not wear them.
I just look back on the days when I was sickest with disgust. I can’t imagine just how I could have destroyed my body as badly as I did and still be able to come back from it. I remember the time I spent at night, measuring the largest part of my thighs, praying they wouldn’t grow. I would cross my arms and be able to wrap one hand around my upper arm-now I can fit my hand around my wrist, as it should be. I would search for a secret way to get in some exercise.
It’s just absolutely unbelievable how I tortured my body. All I hope for is that I don’t have some medical condition from my sickness sitting dormant in my body, waiting for some time to flare up and hurt me.
These days I can celebrate my body. I appreciate my strength. I try hard each day to accept my body shape the way I was built, not the way I think it should be. I know I have a good butt, I won’t deny it! I wouldn’t want to lose weight and risk losing my greatest feature with it. Even though there are some days when I have self-consiousness about my body, like when something doesn’t fit that I think should, I just try to push past it and not let those thoughts carry over into a second day.
The one thing that really helps me the most when I’m having a hard time with clothes (which is my weakest point) is just telling myself that different articles of clothes will fit differently. Brands size things differently. Materials stretch and lay differently. But what I have to keep reminding myself is, even though it’s very cliché, is that I am the only person to know what size I’m wearing. No one else could care less about what size my pants are, and the only reason they would even think about it is if I’m not wearing a size that fits me correctly. For a while I had my mom cover sizes on pants and that really helped me focus on the fit.
Today, I can finally say that I am able to get pants without thinking twice about the size. As long as the pants look good, that is all that matters. If my size is larger than I’d like, nothing bad is going to happen. My friends won’t shun me; my boyfriend won’t break up with me; I won’t lose my job; and most importantly, I’m not unhealthy or out of shape.
My “secrets” of coming so far are not any secrets at all. It is simply learning to think much more rationally than I used to.