January 9, 2015

My Sickness

I spend much of my time lately worshipping at the altar of the bathroom scale, the number on the tag, the distance I can run.

And I count.

I count calories and burpees. I calculate how many miles I have to run to burn off a plate of nachos. How many months until I will be able to wear jeans I feel good in.

I compare. Instantly. Without even realizing it. Immediately, I size up my sisters, giving their legs, backsides and waists silent ratings before I even know it.

Even old photos. From times in my life I thought I was fat. From times in my life I was unhappy, I still wish to go back.

I recently stumbled onto a photo from the summer of 2013, when I knew darkness almost every day. I emanated dead-endness. I was stuck. I spent my time then worshipping at the same altars I do now, and I kissed the feet of a liar and I begged for his love.

But when I saw the photo, I envied the unsmiling girl with a tiny waist and an unmade bed in the background. "I wish I could go back," I sighed.

And it was like everything froze. No, I never want to go back to that. Having the best body in the universe is not worth the innocence I lost that summer. Fitting into all my skinny clothes? Not worth all the tears I shed. Not worth all the days I spent angry and worried. Not worth it.

I guess I'm just preaching this to myself, now. Just because I write something down doesn't necessarily mean I believe it, but I want to believe it because I'm surrounded by women who are perfect and beautiful and curvy and spunky and talented. Women who can write and sing. Women who can ride horses and climb mountains and swim across rivers. (Not me, obviously, but some women can do those things.) Women who can rock babies to sleep and type numbers into a computer all day long and smile even when their hearts are broken. I want to believe this because of my roommate and my mom and my sisters and my nieces and my tight circle of best, best friends.

Nicole means Victorious Heart and I will never go back.