"Actually, I've gained weight," I told her. Which is true. I'm up slightly more than I was last week, in fact, and I still want to claw my way out of my own body starting from my belly button. (It just seems like the most logical place.)
So what this means is that twelve weeks ago, I was essentially at either the same or a higher weight than my weight now. And what that means is that the significance and the torturous importance I put on my erstwhile lower weight is... wait for it... totally irrational. (I know. It's almost surprising.)
|"Lady, y'ain't right."|
The weights and their corresponding shapes haven't changed. What's changed is the significance and the symbolism I accord each of them. It helps, momentarily, to remember this, to point out to myself that my feelings are totally irrational and illogical. But then I'm expected to take the next step. "What does xyz weight mean? Why is it so frightening/such an accomplishment now?" And while even the meager gain I've managed gives me notably more energy than my recent lower weight, I just can't summon up the stamina to plod through those next-level questions right now.
And so we begin again...