I've officially hit 140...again. A-fucking-gain. 140 was my most menacing and difficult plateau to break, lasting for months, even.
I remember how ecstatic I was to first see 139. It felt amazing.
And then 138. Down further, I was on a roll, all the way to 131. I had ALMOST MADE IT. Almost reached the 120s. So fucking close.
And here...I am...Again.
140.
With no one to blame but myself.
I honestly don't want to talk about last night. I went out with my best friend, her boyfriend, and my little one. We went to Carino's. Up until we pulled into the parking lot, I had full intentions of not having a thing, just an iced tea, thank you, because I'd already eaten enough to last me three days earlier in the afternoon.
We arrive, and something enters my mind; that little voice that says, "You've already fucked up today enough, may as well keep going. Plus, your friends are here, and you hardly EVER get to go out to a restaurant at all...just let loose TONIGHT and then start fresh tomorrow."
Starting fresh tomorrow is always a good concept at the end of a long failure of a day, isn't it? The hope of a clean slate is often enough to help pull oneself out of a pit of self-deprecation and guilt...at least there's TOMORROW.
It doesn't work if you're telling yourself "There's always tomorrow!" every...single...night.
Fuck, P.D., gain some self-control and step the fuck up.
You guys are so awesome, so sweet, for genuinely caring for me the way you do. Your words are light to my day, you know? I see that you believe in me and it makes me want to be a better person, and to believe in myself. It's so hard...but your comments mean the world to me, and make it at least a little easier to TRY and keep my chin up. Thank you.
So...aside from the disgustingly disappointing circumstances on the weight/body-image front, other shit has been going down, too. This morning I woke up to a bunch of little dried bloody crusties all around the front of my lip piercing. I must have bitten the back of the stud in my sleep or something and pulled it too hard. I gently rinsed away the blood and examined the hole itself, seeing that the scar tissue from the inside of my lip was now joined by another tiny bit of bubbly scar, this one on the outside. This thing is going on 8 weeks healing and should, by normal standards, be healed by now. Mine isn't. Not even close. In fact, it's only gotten worse over time, mainly due to my compulsive c&s habits and my carelessness in regards to the daily salt-water soaks I *should* have been doing this whole time...
Anyway, I get back in bed and kiss K's cheek, mentioning the crusty little scab behind the ball on my labret stud. His response? "Oh, yeah...You should take that out."
I'm like, "What?" Honestly? I mean, really. I've put about $130 and countless hours and extensive stress into this piercing. I love the way it looks and I've been anxious to see what it would look like with a ring instead of a stud. And now...I won't. Because I took it out.
"I just don't like the way it feels when I kiss you." That's all he had to say. I live for this man's kisses. If it bothers him now, it'll bother him forever, and that's just about as long as I plan to keep him around. :P
So it's gone. Just like that. Meh. It'll take me a little while to stop playing with the empty scarred spot with my tongue just because that's what my tongue always did when there was jewelry in it. What I'm really bothered with is this:
I bought some antiseptic wash to hopefully keep the open wound from getting worse, and some Mederma for fading the scar...also *hopefully*. As you can see, it's not all THAT noticeable as long as I'm not trying to show it off, or as long as you're not much shorter than I am, looking up at me or something. This doesn't detract at all from the fact that I am, like so many of us, exceedingly self-conscious as it is. Knowing there's a new scar on my face and that it's right beneath one of my favorite features doesn't exactly feel awesome.
RIP, pretty labret piercing.
I spent most of my day down and depressed, feeling so fat and disgusting that lying in the dark bedroom all day seemed like the best idea in the world...even though the weather couldn't be more perfect today. 68 and sunny, slight breeze, not a cloud in the sky. Gorgeous. But I'm a whale. I feel so huge. I want to grip the fat all over me and just tear it away, cut it off, beat the living shit out of myself and scream, "WAKE UP! STOP EATING!" I hate how it's so simple, and yet so complex. K finally said something about it today. He listens to me bitch and moan enough about how hard it is, blah blah, etc., but he really doesn't grasp the pain that's behind this, the obsession that hurts more than I can ever put into words (and I love me some words).
"I don't mind hearing about it when you're making progress and doing all of the right things to reach your goals, but when...well, when people complain about their own actions, it's pretty annoying. Like, if you're not in control of yourself, then who can be?" I don't know if I'll ever be able to tell him everything. I wish with all of my heart I could. Instead, I just sighed...stared at him, felt the sting in my eyes, and hugged him hard, letting my frustration fall in teardrops on his shirt so he wouldn't have to see my mascara run. And then we went grocery shopping. Good time to do that, I guess, when I'm so immersed in hating my body that not even the most tempting of foods seems even remotely appetizing.
I've decided that I'll take the Topamax when it gets here. If it gets here. I know there are risks involved but I can't do this anymore. I can't stand it. I eat so much that my body hurts and then I keep going because it numbs everything else. I hate this. I need help. Professional, prescription help. I'll get it. I have to.
This is too long and my computer is too hot so it's freezing up in the most irritating of ways.
All of my love to you, my strong beauties...
<3
