A month ago, I hid my scales in a cupboard in my bedroom to stop myself from obsessively weighing myself multiple times a day. It marked the start of my new attempt at recovery and for the past month I haven’t weighed myself once.
This morning, I decided to weigh myself. For two reasons:
1) Not knowing my weight was scary , but over the course of the month I’ve made so much progress in terms of accepting and starting to love my body and feeling more comfortable in my own skin.
I wanted to weigh myself to fight back against those anxious feelings and to see if I could do it without being affected by the number.
2) Since I last weighed, my eating has changed. I have still binged but not as much and I haven’t purged once. I’ve been working hard to eat when my body tells me to, and stop when I’m satisfied. But I’ve also treated myself by having dessert when I fancy it and not counting calories.
In all honesty, I was curious to see how eating, in what felt like a normal way, affected the number on the scales.
I felt nervous when I got the scales out, it felt like bringing out an old friend that was no good for me. Everything felt too familiar, even the little pixels on the screen.
Before stepping on, I reminded myself that I was starting to love my body, and the number I was about to see wasn’t going to change the reflection I was learning to appreciate. It was just a number, that’s it.
My weight came in, I weigh exactly the same as I did one month ago, to the pound.
I felt surprised, I was sure I was around 4lbs heavier, which shows really how wrong I am about my own body.
It was reassuring to me that I’m maintaining my healthy weight by eating ‘normally’.
For now though, the scales have gone back in the cupboard, who knows when I’ll get them out again, if ever!