No one ever tells me that I need to 'eat a bit more' anymore, that I 'need some more meat on my bones'. I get it. I have a surplus of meat on my bones, I know. I can feel the added weight with every lift and fall of my feet. I can feel everyone who knew me when I was thin, I can feel them as if their stares were a part of me. Oh, they are thinking or whispering to the people who they like enough to let stand close to them, she's gained so much weight since last year. Maybe they will call me a poor thing. I don't want to be a poor thing. I want to be a thin girl, that is the adjective-noun combination I crave for.
Yesterday I didn't eat anything at all except three or four or five (my god no wonder I've gained weight, I'm so terrible at control) sips of a cafe americano. And water. And if crying and scratching and jumping out of bed to get away from nightmares counts as cardio, then I had a pretty good workout yesterday as well. I lost a whole entire big fat kilogram.
But I look in the mirror and my thighs are still not small enough. The circumference of my upper arms when measured by graded tape or my own phalanges, it's not a number that I am comfortable with. The problem is compounded, the problem being how conscious I am of the surplus and how heavy and weighed down my poor poor bones feel, this problem is compounded by my idiotic glances into reflective surfaces. My god I need to lose more weight. I should never eat again.