Too Tired to Title Without Four-Letter Words

I may or may not have just had a minor breakdown over the inability of my iPhone's screen protector to lie properly underneath the phone's case.  I'm not admitting to anything outright.

It's been that kind of week month.

I weighed myself this morning to get a handle on the reality of things after I found myself telling my therapist last week that I felt deflated, flat, fragile.  My eating hasn't been off for that long, I reasoned to her, so it's not like I've actually lost weight, so it's interesting that I'm feeling this way.

Well, no, apparently my eating has been off for long enough to have lost weight.  Not anything epic, but enough to go, "Uh.  Huh."  Again, looking at the anatomical physics at work here, it ought not to be surprising.  My body has its own set of calorie in vs. calorie out math, and the math changed for a little while, so... yeah.  Change doesn't happen in a vacuum, I suppose.  Obviously.

So anyway.  This feeling, and this weight.  There's a lot of, "on the one hand... then on the other hand," as you might have guessed.

On the one hand, bully for me for actually having perceived that my weight was down.

On the other hand, sadface that I didn't actually lend any credence to my own perceptions.  "No, no," said I, "it's all in my head."

On the one hand, once I had proof I've lost weight, I realized, "Crap.  That's not the idea here."

On the other hand, a wee devilish part of me felt the familiar thrill.

On the one hand, I thought, "It's good that I can recognize that thrill's not rational, not healthy, and really not wanted.  Progress?"

On the other hand, I thought, "My word, is that thrill ever going to go away?"

On the one hand, I thought I could give myself a pep talk because I've been trying to assert my needs and take care of myself where my interpersonal relationships are concerned, so that's something.

On the other hand, my efforts at self-preservation have been almost entirely rebuffed by the people they've been aimed at, and I'm about ready to steal something from the Met's arms and armor wing and commit very memorable murder.

And on the one hand, it's fairly normal to lose some weight when you've been working 'til 10:00 on weeknights and 8:00 on the weekends, often too focused or anxious or both to even have meals on the radar.

But on the other, final hand, it's not as if a simple forgetfulness or focus is what's really going on here.  No, that's definitely not all.

Anyway, the cat has presented himself to me and has settled his butt squarely in my left hand, so that occupies one of the hands, at least.

And now, a statue with no hands:

If I were a Greek statue, I'd be a lot less conflicted, because my hands would probably have been lost by this point.
(I am posting this picture because if I don't look at something from the Met right at this second, I shall scream.)
(Next time, pictures with the sword I plan to use in my memorable murder.)

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