I am grieving. I just finished purging my closet of all the clothes that I haven’t been able to wear for almost three years, since I began regaining all the weight I worked so hard to lose for the sixth or seventh time. These size-ten thrift store finds and sale rack gems have been jeering at me daily since then, reminding me that I know what it’s like to feel attractive and “normal”, until I fail once again. I’ve endured their mocking in hopes that they would inspire the resolve to lose again, only this time forever.
The last time I did this, I was filled with triumph as I happily disposed of all the “fat clothes” I had been relegated to wearing for so long. I gave them away so that I would be forced to maintain my latest loss. I vowed to never be imprisoned by shapeless plus-size apparel again.
I continue to vacillate between blaming my genes, this shallow culture that insists on equating thinness with worth, or my apparent lack of control. Anger at my genes or our culture provides me with brief respite from the self-loathing that comes with the rage I feel at my weakness. It’s a curse either way. I teeter between trying to accept myself as I am, and continuing to search for that illusive magic pill or diet that will permanently lift this weight from my body and soul.
I won’t give these clothes away, though. I’ll stow the boxes in the attic for when I finally get it right. Maybe I’ll start tomorrow.
Essay – my ongoing internal battle with the scales