My scales and I had a violent dispute a few weeks ago. I'll not get into it (because if you know me, I'm sure you can use your imagination- I'LL SET FIRE TO YA), but we decided a trial separation might be an idea. Oh, listen to me. I hate people who type all gay like this, personifying pointlessly; next I'll be writing from perspective of a cuddly toy. But oh no, no. Don't worry, aside from my talking Fairy Princess Peppa Pig, I'm not much of a cuddly toy type of a girl.
The separation isn't going horrifically, but I can't help but feel I'd feel, well, BETTER if I had them. I know that the amount of times I weigh myself isn't normal, neither is the importance I put on even the tiniest fluctuation (0.2kg of a gain can utterly ruin my day) but it just doesn't seem to be that much of a problem. At least when I know my weight, I know it. I can put it aside, to a point, whereas now my mind is taken up by imaginings of impossible weight gains and it's killing me. No, that's such an exaggeration. I'm actually pretty happy, altogether. But it's definitely playing on my mind, too much. It's ANNOYING me, but like I said- the separation isn't horrific. It's just not favourable to having my scales here.
And that's the thing, I can't even make the decision to check my weight now and then, I don't know, cut down on the number of times I weigh myself because my scales aren't HERE, they're alone for Christmas in Colchester, whilst I'm back up in Scunthorpe. Cutting down, I don't know... despite me saying before that it doesn't seem to be much of a problem, I know that putting an inordinate amount of importance on the number given to me by a few pieces of what would otherwise have been scrap plastic and metal isn't RIGHT. It's so illogical that it's laughable. It's like using your temperature to gather how good a person you are- I KNOW that the number given to me by the scales is relevant to nothing but my weight, and that as long as I stay within the healthy range, my weight is relevant to absolutely NOTHING.
But sometimes my weight is the only thing I feel connected to- facing it is my punishment or reward, isn't that sick? It's cause and effect and it's, well... I'm trying to describe this without using the word 'control' because shit, that word annoys me. I think I've written before about how it's possible to describe anything, in anybody's life, rightly or wrongly as a quest for control. But still, eating disorder specialists love to throw the word around, and maybe I should stop resisting it and let them.
How annoying, maybe they're right.
So now I'm obsessively trying to work out my weight by my thighs. Which I should just give up as a bad job, because even if I could work it out, and then even if I managed to shrink my thighs, what would I achieve? I'm not trying to squeeze into a smaller clothes size, because my clothes all fit perfectly well, thank you. I'm not trying to make my body attractive, because I actually have no interest in what you think of it, thank you. I'm not trying to make my body smaller, because I think it's actually an alright body, thank you. I don't want people to think that I'm skinny, I don't want bones and I most definitely have no urge to be like Mary-Kate. I don't really want anything but health. But, you know, I'd still quite like to know what that lump of waste plastic and metal thinks of my body. God. Fuck you, scales.