?Losing weight was my life’s purpose. I lived and breathed for the moments when I could see the numbers fall on the scale. It didn’t matter how I felt in the moment because I was promised increasing happiness in exchange for my decreasing size. I learned to celebrate the misery of my pursuit, and I came to love the insidious whispers coaxing me on. It would all be worth it. Suffer now, rejoice later. That was what I inferred to be true. And admittedly, I was willing to accept this fact at face value —for I had little self-worth anyway.
My body continued to shrink. The numbers on the scale continued to fall. And I eagerly awaited the happiness I had been promised. But it never arrived. Bewildered, I pushed myself harder and was rewarded with a flicker of joy as I continued to reduce my size. But that thrill was always short-lived, and the resulting fall precipitous. I was stuck. I was trapped. I was helpless. Worst of all, I was aware that I was stuck, trapped and helpless. But I couldn’t let anyone else know this.
It’s difficult to find the words to explain the chaos in my head. I became increasingly troubled with each new “goal weight” I achieved. I never really cared if I were thin or not. I cared that I never relieved my suffering. I kept lowering my goal weight in order to maintain any hope of finding happiness. In my opinion, it doesn’t matter what you weigh, or how much weight you lose. What matters are the consequences you face by believing an external goal will provide a cure-all solution to life’s problems.
At my lowest weight there was no celebration. Rather, there was simply tragedy. This is what happens when you follow an illusion into the abyss. I wish I could tell you that I hit rock bottom once, and then had a sudden epiphany. But I had many more obstacles to face and scales to curse. And looking back, I now know that I was most unhappy when I reached my lowest weight. ~Britt?
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