I wake up and I drag my fat, incontinent ass to the bathroom--not without lugging my trusty black scale along. I lock both locks on the bathroom door (safe is better than sorry). I place the scale before the toilet and weigh myself in my robe and pajama dress. -1 lb from last night's 2 lb binge. Then I pee, and I weigh myself again. And then I take off my sleepwear and my panties and I weigh myself again. The first of my lax-induced bowel movements begin. I shit, and I weigh myself. I stare at myself in the mirror, pulling at my belly fat and my sagging tits. I shit, and I weigh myself. I return to my bedroom and I curl up in my bed as the stomach cramps tear at me. When I can't take the feelings in my stomach any more, I once more drag myself back to the toilet. I shit, and I weigh myself. When I weigh myself, I get on and off the scale repeatedly, waiting for it to reset itself each time. I sit at the toilet trying to shit, and I weigh myself some more.
And then... -2 lb. -3 lb. -4 lb. I could cry. It is one of those times when you go from one ten to the other... like how 71 to 69 is so much infinitely harder than 79 to 71. Such bliss, to see another number in the tens place. I smile. Happy? Only the most fleeting kind. The rest of my mind is already scheming numbers and calories and distances. I can find happy, but never the kind that lasts.
0 comments:
Post a Comment