A Means to an End
It’s funny how quickly old habits can take over. Think about riding a bike or driving a car. It doesn’t matter how long it has been since you last cycled or drove, you remember exactly what to do as soon as you hop behind the handlebars or steering wheel.
Losing weight, for me, is similar. The first few days are torture – all I want to do is eat and cutting out calories seems to have absolutely no effect whatsoever. I have to drag myself to the gym. Then, I begin to notice a change. My face is less puffy and bloated, my stomach is just the tiniest bit more defined. I stop concentrating on how hungry am and start to enjoy the feeling in a perverse sort of way. It’s like dragging a heavy weight along the ground which gradually gives up its resistance and comes quietly.
Then as soon as the scales tell me I’ve lost half a stone, and old tight clothes are suddenly comfortable again, I only feel the need to eat to stop myself from feeling ill and lethargic, so I can exercise with vigour. This normally lasts a couple of weeks, when my hunger gets the better of me and I spiral out of control, putting on all the weight I’d lost and then some.
I’m going to rely on fluoxetine, the promise of my size 8 jeans and the mental image of a bikini body over the summer to stop me from losing this fabulous stretch of will power. If I have strict control over everything I eat, every gram of fat, sugar and salt and every kcal, I’ll lose enough to be slim, toned and fit again. 8st, no more, no less. My life will fall into a comfortable routine of waking, exercising, socialising, eating, drinking, working and sleeping. I will stay there, forgetting about this whole obsession, eating healthily, taking pride of things other than my weight and the inches around my thighs.
I just want to get there first, and the only way I know to get there fast does happen to employ my old disordered habits. I guess it’s just a means to an end, a method of making myself happy so I can rid myself of this obsession I lost most of my teenage years to. There are definitely worse traits to have than extra weight and cellulite, but they’re imperfections which can be changed, and if it means so much to me, why shouldn’t I change them?