Fucking scale

I couldn’t avoid the scale anymore. As much as I was trying it got the better of me. Before all this I was an extremely strict one day a week/ same time of day type. There was no other reason to get on any other time. When I started incorporating long runs into my schedule I would weigh before and after to get a sense of water lost and how much I had to make up. I am ridiculously bad about drinking while running. Other that those occasions the scale sat pretty unoticed in the corner of the bathroom. This morning I looked at it and looked at it. I told myself- don’t go there. don’t even let your self go there. nope. did it anyway. Some of the numbers I had expected. I knew I had controlled the sodium enough to counter the water retention. What I wasn’t expecting was to be blindsided by the fat %. I had dropped down into the 22% body fat range. Very happily. 10lbs gained and I am over 30%. OMG. I got off that scale like it had been set on fire. I look at myself and I know. I didn’t need a scale to tell me that, but it sure drove the point home. I walked downstairs trying hard not to come unglued. Most would say WTF is the matter with you. Why is this such a problem?? I wish I knew that answer, or that it was an easy one. I guess it is so hard to stomach (def no pun intended) because I have worked so damn hard to get where I was. I had finally come close to creating the body I wanted and could love. It’s gone now. buried in flesh uncalled upon. I look over my monthly stats and it is even tougher. May= 18 workouts/runs/bikes- 117 miles. 7800 kcal burned. I lost 1 week in the hospital. otherwise all off my weeks were over 26 miles, most being above 34. I did not gain 10 lbs sitting on my ass eating bon bons. Though I know I have consistently overeaten since I returned from the hospital. There is no amount of food that can satiate me right now. I’m disgusted with myself. and terrified that my metabolism altered forever. There is no amount of klonopin that can offset that fear. and most of all I hate myself for freaking out over something as stupid as weight. I think of all the wonderful people in my life that live with their weight and don’t write blogs about it or avoid mirrors over it. I feel like a vain shallow piece of shit right about now. and the end result is I just want to eat more. To stop running. To just say fuck it and give up. to be like so many of those I have come across fat and diabetic on psych meds. where life is lived one meal to the next most of the time rather than one episode to the next. Is that bad? does it really fucking matter in the end? As I struggle to find some peace with all this I am left unsure and panic stricken. I feel like I am losing the piece of myself I found that I could love. It hurts. it fucking tears my heart out and with it my ability to reason and see clearly.

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