I saw my nutritionist today.
(We are in medias res. I see a nutritionist. Biweekly. She is part of my Team. I was a resident in an inpatient eating disorder treatment facility, fall of '04, and progress must be maintained and, hopefully, furthered.)
Anyway, I told my nutritionist that I have been having "spikes of distress." She asked, "Food or body image?" I thought. "Body image."
I had to buy pants. The fantastic pants I bought way on sale got the chub-rub holes. I'm teetering on this weird edge where sometimes a Gap 20 fits and sometimes it doesn't. The Gap 20 I bought on eBay? Didn't. And I've been trying to buy my sister a skirt for Christmas. She wears a 6.
And I've been reading the diet blogs again. Thinking I should lose weight. I've been holding so nice and steady. But when I went home for Thanksgiving, my mother said brightly—my mother, who is generally good about observing the edicts of mental health professionals—that I looked like I lost weight. I disagreed, but weighed myself and saw 257, down from my last noted weight of 263.
I wonder if it ever stops.
This is why I bring up my nutritionist. I told her how they told us in treatment over and over again that "bad body image is the last to go." Even so, I said, "I want it gone."
You will note that my New Year's Resolution was something of a failure. I will note, surreptitiously (now, not-so-surreptitiously), that I wonder why I was writing this then. What happened January 3rd that made me want to start a blog? I know what happened January 1st. I had the best New Year's kiss of all time, with a kissing partner who turned into a wonderful friend and lover who turned into a truly fantastic boyfriend. Romance does not obviate the feeling that one is too fat for the world.
Last night I read personal ads. I thought, when we break up, will I ever find another boyfriend?
I am recording. Keeping an eye on things. As per my nutritionist's instructions. This is indeterminacy.