A warning: This post is not progress. This post is not pleasant. This post is me working through some shit, or trying to. It may or may not be yeeterus-related. It's probably at least tangentially related, but if you're only here for hysterectomy testimonial, you can skip this one. I'm also throwing in a great big trigger warning for body image issues.
It's no secret that over the past 6 months, I've been working on my body. Doing my best to eat better, seeing a personal trainer (which has been on pause for surgery, and fucking weirdly, I miss it), the works. I made some great progress before the wedding, losing about 20lbs and at least one dress size. (This is the first time I've seen that loss in writing. Oddly, it's not helping.) I've managed to lose that much weight while also gaining muscle, which is no mean feat.
I mentioned in an earlier post that post surgery, I had lost 4lbs in a week because I couldn't really eat much. When I called my doctor to get better anti-nausea meds, we discussed the weight loss, and he wasn't entirely concerned. A lot of people lose weight after removing an IUD (which I did, along with the uterus), and in most cases, this is welcome. Since then, I've been able to start eating more normally, and if I'm honest, haven't been eating the most healthy foods. I'm still eating less than I was before the wedding, and I'm not eating frosting straight from the container or anything, so I'm not doing too badly on that front. But I do think I'm developing a problem.
This morning, I decided to get on the scale to see if I had managed to screw things up (that mentality was my first clue that something was wrong). And I've managed to lose more weight. For the first time in I-don't-know-how-many-years, the scale said "175". That should have been a celebration. This is the lowest my weight has been since meeting my partner. And for several years previous. I'm pretty sure the last time I hit this weight, I was on disability for my mental breakdown and had trouble remembering to eat because I was so heavily medicated. And I wasn't going to the gym and particularly strong at that point. But there was no small celebration. There was a mild feeling of relief (that I hadn't gained any weight), and then I immediately felt like shit.
Because my body does not look the way I would expect it to after having lost 25lbs while also gaining muscle. (I'm repeating the gaining muscle for a reason. Fat is less dense than muscle, and therefore, 2lbs of fat will take up more space than 2lbs of muscle.) I look at myself and don't see progress. I don't see the smaller pants size or the shirts that don't cling quite so tightly. I don't feel like I look any different. I feel all the work, and all the struggle, and all the inability to eat, and still feel like a cow.
And then the guilt kicks in on top of it. I have made progress. The fact that my wedding gown zipped up without any struggle at all when it had a solid 5" that wouldn't close at purchase is proof enough of that. The fact that I bought junior's pants (albeit a size 13, but fuck) for the first time since college is proof enough. The fact that the size 12 jeans I bought over the summer are now a little loose is fucking solid evidence, especially seeing as how I've worn them all of once, so I know they're not stretched out. And I know so many people who have been struggling with their weight or who just have bigger bodies than mine, (Who I find both beautiful and sexually attractive, even though they're bigger than I am and yet I'm repulsed by my own body...what the fuck) who would never say it to my face, but who must be looking at this and thinking that I'm a complete asshole. Because if I see myself as a cow, how must I see them? Except I don't see them the same way I see myself. They may be objectively larger than I am, but they're not cows, or disgusting, or repulsive. I see them as gorgeous, Rubenesque, goddesses of women. I am, in fact, very much attracted to larger women, particularly larger women who own their bodies. ("Yes, I shop in the 'plus' section. And I look fucking good in everything I wear. And you know what? I wear fucking comfy pants, and there isn't a goddamn thing you can do about it, because I'm wearing what I want and I don't give a fuck what anyone thinks about it." That's insanely sexy to me. More places for me to caress? Fucking awesome.) The whole "more to love" idiom absolutely applies here. To other women.
Could some of this be related to the post operative weight loss? Yes. Could it be related to my current issues with the scarring? Yes. Will it fade? Fuck I hope so. Could it also be related to my obsession with fitting into that stupid fucking wedding gown? Yes, very much so, and I suspect that's where it started. I suspect that my fear broke something in my brain. This is something I need to work on. Wish me luck.
For anyone concerned about eating disorders: don't be. I have NEVER been susceptible to anorexia, bulimia, or the one where you exercise until you pass out. I like food far too much (and have no impulse control), hate vomiting, and am entirely too lazy to actually exercise more than is strictly necessary (or paid for). I'm just struggling with hating my meatsuit.
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