I know my weight. The exact numbers down to the point. A gigantic leap from the figures made known to me a year ago before my full-fledged recovery – stared back at me. I actually didn’t expect the knowledge of my weight to have any impact on my mind whatsoever; the scale never featured in my eating disorder…I suppose it could have been a different situation had we even owned a scale! So, ignorant of my weight before restricting intake and never weighing while spiralling downward – I was running on the falsely rewarding sensation of “controlling” and “succeeding” .
No matter how blissful ignorance; for quite some time I’ve been deliberating on where I stood in the “healthy range”. When the chance of a consultation with a scale presented itself, I hesitantly took up the opportunity.
I am not going to even try to kid myself. I am shocked. What did I expect the numbers to be? Well, at the guidance from my Doc I needed to reach a weight considered “safe” as quick as possible, thereafter making a conscience effort to get to – in her words – my ideal range. I imagined to have reached the safe zone. Lo and behold, I am at my ideal ideal weight… with a 0.6 points above that. The daunting task of gaining 16 kg’s happened seemingly effortlessly; I can barely believe that at one stage the very thought of such a quest was enough to make my heart skip a beat. After the initial silent shock of allowing the number (my weight) to sink in… what now? I quietly mulled over whether I was going to allow this number to establish a meaning in my life, to impact or change my way of viewing myself. And you know what? I see no reason whatsoever.
Honestly, I don’t feel as though I appear to weigh that much… being aware of it shouldn’t change anything. Other than simply playing a role in my health measurements that number does not feature in the person I am. I need not announce it for the world to know and it can get lost among the head of figures I possess in my role as an accountant.