You, who choose to close your ears, who turn their gaze away from “beautiful women” on the covers of Vogue and the boards scattered across the metro, I applaud.
You, who are not consumed by the numbers on the scale beneath your feet that try to dictate how much (or rather, how little) you should eat, I envy.
You, who know that true beauty is found within, whose inner beauty radiates and expands to touch those outside and around you, I commend.
You, who have been found by a man who is decent, bold, and a man, truly; who treats you with respect, who never allows your looks to define how he must love you, I congratulate.
You, who have chosen not to submit to the pull of the media, who have chosen to be much better than that, who have known beforehand its deceit, and have chosen to be wise, I beg, "Save the rest."
You, whom I applaud, envy, commend, and congratulate; whose values are set, firm, and steady; whose minds (and bodies) are healthy; whose outlooks and perspectives are yet untainted; whose confidence and security do not waver; and whose beauty does not fade; I warn.
DISCLAIMER: Please don’t read this if you’re trying to just be happy and content with yourself—especially your weight.
I’m trying to understand what would really make me happy. It seems I can’t force myself to enjoy eating as much as I hoped. I’m back to 120lbs after having dropped to 113lbs last 2010. While it took nearly two years for me to gain back seven pounds, I don’t find much comfort in it. People tell me that I look fine. Some even say they prefer how I am now. But the truth is, it doesn’t really matter what they say, what they want, how they feel.
I’m not happy being 120lbs. What’s a number on the scale, right? So many inspirational quotes, and heartfelt posts on tumblr warn my generation against the perils of defining one’s happiness by the weight on the scale. But what would make me happy?
I’m finding out that enjoying food doesn’t really sustain my happiness. When I start gaining, I cease enjoying both—my body, and the food that caused my weight gain in the first place. Food doesn’t make me happy. If I were to be completely honest, then I’d have to admit (or face the possibility) that I am obsessed over losing weight. I may not inherently want to starve myself, which means I’m not really Anorexic. But it does become a fleeting option in my mind on really bad days—which means I’m close to having such a condition.
But more and more, I’m realizing: Why should (and am) I forcing myself to find happiness in weight gain? What if I just can’t find it there? Why not pursue what I believe will make me happy? If slaving over diets and exercise in order to lose these extra pounds grants me the kind of contentment and fulfillment that I can’t find in eating, then why not?
I am weight-conscious.
I have issues with my body and my image. I’m obsessed with looking my best. I’m vain and I’d like to lose weight so I can look my best in the clothes I’d like to purchase.
Why is it (or does it seem to be) such a bad thing to embrace if, currently, this is who I am?
Sadly… I’ve always been one of “those girls”. I think it’s time I became honest about it…