212.6... 212.6... 212.6...
I stepped off the scale, after stepping on it several times to see if I’d lose a fraction of a pound, 212.6 pounds... every... single... time.
My first instinct was to cry—to allow the tears to blur my vision and block out the evil number. But, I didn’t cry. My second instinct was to stare at my nude body and berate it with ridicule. But, I didn’t stare. So, what did I do instead? That’s the magic question.
Before I reveal my answer, let’s take a little journey down the bumpy road of my past. The first time I noticed my weight was the summer before sixth grade. My elementary school had sent out a newsletter, welcoming in the sixth grade class. In this newsletter there were headings about all sorts of things, but the only one I can recall with clarity is the one about a sixth grader’s healthy weight: 95 pounds. I don’t remember if there was anything written about weight in regards to height or gender. The only thing that stands out to me is that number—95 pounds.
I did what any normal child would do at that point. I ran to the bathroom and stepped on the scale to see if I was “healthy”... nope. The number flashed back at me like a sneering Jack-in-the-Box. “You’re unhealthy,” the number mocked. Unhealthy, what a frightening word. I stared down at the number, tears blurring my vision, but I’ll never forget what it said—97 pounds.... 97... pounds. That was the day I realized something that haunts me to this day: I’ll never be enough.
Two pounds may not seem like a lot for a sane adult, I realize this, but I was not a sane adult at that time, nor do I pretend to be one now. As an almost eleven-year-old, my childish mind could only see that I was different. I was odd. I wasn’t healthy. This began my hate affair with the scale—a ball and chain I tethered to my ankle and found my identity in. That was the day I made a decision, one that almost took my life nine years later. That was the day I vowed, regardless of what it took, that I would lose the weight. Regardless of what it took... even if what it took was my joy, my laughter, my life.
On that day, so many years ago I made a decision to become a bulimic. I don’t even know how I knew what to do. It was as though the idea had been planted in my mind by some unseen force. Perhaps it was. I was a bulimic, and I am still a bulimic. I say that in present tense because one never fully rids herself of this thorn. It twists and turns in her side, branching out like a demonic vine. Once she plucks one thorn away, seven more grow in its place. This monster, Bulimia, does more than kill the body... it destroys the soul.
I’ve spent decades trying to be enough, starving myself and vomiting what little food I consumed, working out until my hands bled, and all for what end? To be healthy. It baffles me that I associated health with a number on a scale. That I assumed fad diets, punishments, and self-hate would make me better. No sane adult would ever think that... right?
So, now back to that million dollar question: what did I do instead? For two years I’ve been pulling out that nasty little vine from my flesh. I’ve faced the truth, that beauty doesn’t make me a better person, and I’ve tracked down the origin of the lies I believe. This all led me back to that moment the summer before sixth grade. Oh, if I could go back to that little girl and rip the envelope from her hand. If I could embrace her and whisper in her ear, “You matter, Molly. My God how you matter!” Perhaps, then, I could erase those decades of pain, those moments of slipping down the rabbit’s hole, and all of those times I wished I was dead... all because of a silly little number.
212.6... 212.6... 212.6 pounds of quirk, strength, beauty, and purpose. See the solution is clear, my beautiful readers, once you see your weight for what it is, a number, you begin to free yourself from the dregs of enslavement. We are all more than a number. We are all more than just skin. We are all beautiful souls. We are warriors fighting from within.
Today, be more than a number. Be you!
