I woke up this morning wondering why I don’t love myself enough to lose weight. My girth is putting a strain on my heart as well as my platform bed. In other areas of my life I believe I treat myself well, but in this one area, I exhibit pure and simple self-loathing. I don’t get it.
For a good portion of my adult life I was anorexic and bulimic and weighed very little. Food and my body were my enemies and I wanted to disappear. I suppose a lot of this came from my childhood and growing up with parents-especially my mother-who were obsessed with the appearance of things. My mother was on my back constantly about my weight-and I wasn’t fat!-and my adolescent pimples. She herself was always dieting and was a very vain woman. It’s no mystery why both my sister and I developed eating disorders and worked out obsessively. But once they put me on medication for being crazy and the weight began to pile on and I became too tired to run every day, I lost something quite essential to living with self-love.
I suppose I could blame a lot of my poundage on meds and that wouldn’t be a total cop-out. But where my body is concerned I just sort of gave up. I could say that some of that also had to do with my mother. I was going to show her that I didn’t care about the one thing that meant more to her than anything else: appearance. But that was years ago and I am all grown up now, my mother is dead and I have nobody to spite. So why continue to abuse myself? Am I simply just trying to be the opposite of my mother? To show myself that I am NOT her? How infantile! Meanwhile I am jeopardizing my health and I cannot find enough self-love within to change.
My therapist, who is a Cognitive, would have a lot to say about what to do but not why. My desire right now is to understand it all better. I think that if I can get to the root of the complex issues surrounding my relationship with my mother, I can then effect some change in the way I treat myself. Is it that if I, in fact, stay fat, my mother wins? Does that mean that her hatred of me has become my own? Her need to be better than I am is now being fed by me. I am proving to myself that I am the nothing she told me I was.
But the bottom line now is that this is all ridiculous. Convoluted, but stupid. I am no longer responsible for my mother’s happiness, as she told me I was. My responsibility is to my self and my happiness. I owe myself good health. I owe my heart and my platform bed better than I have been giving them. I am no longer not good enough. I am fine just the way I am. I deserve to love myself and that will not be my mother’s vanity. It will be my self-respect.