The husband is trying to lose weight. To this end, he's eating more healthfully, and to that end, he's taking alli.
I have thoughts, the not least-disordered of which being, "If he's doing it, why aren't I allowed to?"
I can't stand my body right now. I really can't stand it. I'm being generally better to it, and I feel as if it's getting bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger and....
I hate being stuck in the hate. I would love to love my body. I would love to love that I breathe without thinking about it, that my neurotransmitters are basically on track, that the little wounds I accumulate from living heal a little more each time I sleep. It ought to be enough. I try. I go through the motions. I try to make it enough. It ought to be enough.
Who's up for a little Regina Spektor?
(I've got a perfect body, but sometimes I forget)
(I've got a perfect body 'cause my eyelashes catch my sweat)
(Yes they do, they do....)