All of yesterday, I wore 2.5 pound weights around each of my ankles, and I'm doing the same thing today. You wouldn't think that small amount of weight would make a difference, but it does. It felt really funny trying to walk, let alone run. It was like trying to wade through thick sludge. Plus, everybody was looking at me strangely because of the weights peeking out from underneath my pant legs.
I can't really explain why I feel this is necessary. For the majority of my young adult life, I've had body issues. I've never been fat, I suppose, but I've always felt subpar. I would work out constantly and got too thin there for a while. While I knew that I didn't weigh enough, I felt good. I felt pretty and fit and I could eat pretty much whatever I wanted. Now I'm at the ultimate low place, at least for me. I have gained weight and I just feel blah.
I just wish I could get to a point where I was comfortable with myself. It's true when someone says that anorexia is an incurable disease; therapy would probably help me but a part of my brain just eeks out when you talk about going to see a therapist. Paying somebody to talk to? Um, I can just talk to my mom, right? She's free and has a ton of emotional support just waiting to be dispensed. Or my dad. He's a pillar. My sister could probably also be an ear. But I almost feel like it's trivial. There are people in Haiti that have lost everything; children are starving; the elderly are being forgotten. Sigh.
Sorry, I've just been going through a rough patch. So I'm going to think of the sunshine coming my way tomorrow. Maybe spring really is just around the corner.