I’m writing today’s post with mixed emotions. Currently, I’m battling with a mingling of hurt and pride. It’s hard to explain, but I’m trying to find the words.
I guess I should start the story from the beginning.
Last night, I was involved in a discussion which included several people. There were several individuals with whom I’m friendly, but not close to. They do not know my personal situation anymore than I know theirs.
I do not want to go into details, as I do not want relive the situation nor call the person out, but the conversation eventually steered towards weight.
Now, I’m not overly sensitive.
I can discuss weight, food, addictions, and more without issue.
I can separate myself from it because I realize that 99% of the time, the conversation is innocent.
However, a few comments were made that were downright cruel.
Regardless of whether or not I [or anyone else involved in the discussion] had an eating disorder, there were insensitive phrases, comments, and judgments tossed around by a specific person that were inappropriate, painful, and, in some ways, ignorant. Again, I don’t want to go into too much detail, but some examples would be the phrase “fat chicks,” or the generalization that all fat girls just want to be pretty and thin because they have issues with self-acceptance.
A comment, intended as a joke, was even directed towards me that slashed deep into the core of my insecurities.
It froze me.
I stopped talking, stopped thinking, and stopped reacting.
I was speechless.
Fortunately, the conversation naturally ended among the group a few minutes later, so I was able to leave without drawing attention to myself.
However, the damage was done.
I could feel the monster inside me, tugging.
Worthless. Fat. Ugly.
STOP. STOP. STOP.
It chanted from somewhere deep inside, reverberating in my ears like the echoing cacophony left behind a passing ambulance. I couldn’t shake it.
Yet… I did.
A year ago, this would have caused me to relapse.
Pills. Ipecac. Something.
I would have done something.
Hell, six WEEKS ago I would have relapsed.
But I didn’t.
I talked it out with a close friend. I confided my emotions, releasing the valve – watching as the scalding steam of my self-hatred leaked away, dissipating into the air of understanding.
I didn’t slip.
I didn’t binge.
I didn’t purge.
A small success.
And for that, I am proud.