Something Different

So, I had a doctor's appointment today.  I swear, I can't even count the number of times I've been to the damned doctor in the past twelve months.  Sinus infections, allergies, migraines, possible broken foot...and a bunch of other crap I'm sure I'm not remembering.  I don't like that his receptionist knows me by sight.

And every damned time I go there, what's the first fucking thing they do?  Put me on a scale.  I understand this to a point, but you know, if I was just here a week or so ago, chances aren't good it's changed that damned drastically.  And if it has, don't you think it would be pretty obvious without reading the stupid numbers on the scale?

I have avoided going to the doctor at times when I should have because of the damned scale.  Those numbers are bound to ruin my day.  Granted, I'm fully clothed and wearing chunky 3-inch heels most of the time, but I can't logically say my clothes and shoes take enough pounds off to magically make me not overweight.

I leave the doctor's office after each visit just flat out depressed.  I want to cry from the moment I step on that damned scale.  Generally, I race home, weigh myself wearing exactly what I was at the doctor's office on my scale and try to convince myself his scale was wrong.  Then I strip and get naked and try again.  Guess what?  Clothes off doesn't make you thin.  Whodda thunk?

These lovely little scale adventures were historically almost always  followed by either  a) binge b) purge or c) cutting- on many occasions, some combination of the three. Oh, and a lot of tears and beating myself up for what a fat cow I was.  In the past year, those behaviors have stopped...but the thinking hasn't completely gone away.  Maybe it won't ever completely go away- but it sure as hell won't if I just keep adding fuel to the fire.

So...today, I told the nurse "I don't want to know the number.  Is it okay if I don't face the scale?"  She was okay with that.  I don't know those three numbers that would drive me insane, there was no rushing home to weigh myself and then punish myself for what the stupid numbers read.  There was a bit of anxiety at not knowing...then there was calm and a feeling of accomplishment.  And...a realization that... those numbers don't matter to me anymore.  Not really, not in the grand scheme of things.

Yes, I'm overweight- obese, actually- but let's say I only had the choice between 221 lbs and 83 lbs.  I'd choose to stay where I'm at, hands down.