I weighed myself this morning. Big mistake. Between normal weight gain, stress weight gain, medicine-related weight gain, and everything else I’m going through, I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been. In my entire life.
At first I was disgusted with myself. “How can I let myself go like this? Why am I so lazy? What’s wrong with me when everyone else can be thin and happy at the same time?” Then I told a friend that I was feeling miserable about it, and she told me that my weight just needs to be patient – I’m working on my mental health right now.
She’s right. (If she reads this, she’ll be super happy – she loves to win our debates!)
I can’t spend all of my time stressing out about the size that I am or the number on the scale if I’m ever going to help my mental state. I’m on two different medications for mental health and I’ve been seeing a therapist – I can’t just put all of that aside and worry about a number on the scale.
I’m doing what I can with what I’ve been given, and I’ve got better things to work on and think about than my weight. My weight is not who I am, and I need to remember that.