getting to goal one again

one hundred and twenty-eight.
i am one hundred and twenty-eight.
i am one hundred and twenty-eight pounds of excess, of greed, of gluttony, of lard atop a claustrophobic frame of bone.

somewhere in the last month i've gained three pounds.
i know my low weight was technically 121.8, but i don't count that, because i'd pretty much starved for that.
in my head, i was only really 125.

and so we're back to trying to reach goal number one.


yesterday i ate all my calories right after breakfast. breakfast, of course, being at 3:30 in the afternoon.
so then i was simply going to not eat.
(when i say all my calories, i'm not saying, "oh, i ate all my 200 for the day." my limit is a thousand. because i can't seem to manage less than that.)
then of course something or other happened and i ended up stuffing my face. though i don't even remember what i ate.


i failed at my promise to myself, of course.
i was doing really well, but then NE and i happened upon a street fair in princeton... and a cupcake store had a tent... they were the winners of that show cupcake wars....
NE bought a dozen for his frisbee team back at the tournament, and six for just the two of us.
so i had three cupcakes.
and oh god they were sofuckinggood. chocolate brownie cupcake with chocolate ganache icing? best thing to ever happen to my mouth.
-sighs miserably-
up until that point, i was so strong. i made smart choices for lunch - i picked a sandwich i really wanted, regardless of calories, but i only had half of it and had the other half replaced with an 80 calorie salad. 80 in place of the other 410? win. ...and it's things like that that make me think i don't have a problem (not that i could possibly have a real problem, with how much i eat), and i'm just making healthy choices and allowing myself to eat what i want.
butthosefuckingcupcakes.
(on the "bright side", he definitely won't think i'm disordered.....)



and so begins more self-punishing.
i don't deserve ganache icing.
i don't deserve the simple pleasures of taste, because i've gorged myself.
my mother brought home leftover hershey bars after coffee hour at church sunday. those are finally gone, and i can breathe freer, not afraid to open the refrigerator because i'm uncertain of how strong i'll be.
now i just have to stay away from the peanut butter.


it makes me want to vomit thinking about how 128 is even an improvement from normal me. normal me weighed approximately 135 pounds. just picturing those seven extra pounds of fat on my body makes me squirm. just thinking about it, i can feel the weight on my hips and i want to get away from it.

i hate being larger.




i have a doctor's appointment wednesday, for the retake of the blood test. we're also going to use that as an opportunity for my checkup to fill out my medical form for college.
i've only seen this doctor once before, on march eighteenth. i was 125 pounds that day, and the doctor confirmed it.
that i'm going to be THREE POUNDS MORE when i see him again? unacceptable. he didn't see 135-lb me for all those years, he doesn't know 125 isn't standard. he's going to think i'm a pig. he's going to lecture me about not gaining weight because gaining weight, especially three pounds in a month, is bad and unhealthy.-----
deep breath.

i know he's not going to think any of that. but even trying to be logical!AZ, irrational ed (not that i have a legit eating disorder, mind you) takes over before i can finish a mental sentence. "doctors are reasonable and know things about real health. i am at the low end of healthy, that's all that matters to him." turns too quickly into "but it's true that he doesn't know 125 isn't standard for you; this 3-pound gain in a month and a half is going to be so dramatic and unexpected." and i spiral again. "he's going to think i'm a pig."

deep breath.


it's 1:28 am and i hate it. really, blogger, you had to resave my draft at 1:28 just to emphasize those numbers? fuck you too.



earlier, on the subject of goal weights, i thought it was terribly naive and illogical that some people believe somehow that their lives will be better, that they will be perfect, at some (relatively) arbitrary weight.
i felt, realistically, i'd set a goal, but it'd just be a goal. and then, probably, when i reached said goal, i'd just go lower. problems wouldn't be solved; i'd still be far from perfect.
today i caught myself thinking, "everything will be so much better when i'm 115."
...i don't mean years, of course.