My overeating served me. It served me well.
It took away my desire to see him. It took away my need to see him, to make him regret what he did. The need to get an apology.
My overeating served me. It served me well. It comforted me in my pain. When emotions were overwhelming and I didn’t know what to do with them, food buffeted the pain.
My overeating served me. It created a buffer between the world and me. It made me invisible. No one flirted with me. No one noticed me. Men didn’t look at me, so I didn’t have to deal with the discomfort that created.
My overeating served me. Being overweight made me want to hide because of my embarrassment. Hiding kept me from taking risks. Taking risks in my situation is scary. Risks can lead to failure and humiliation and I could survive no more of that devastation.
My overeating served me. It kept me from trying new things. New things I could not accomplish, reinforcing my belief that I’m not good at anything. Like hiking or writing or creating or painting or bringing something back to life. It protected me from disappointment.
My overeating served me. But it doesn’t serve me anymore.
It’s holding me back, squashing me under its weight. It’s time to move on. It’s time to find new adventures, to discover new hobbies, to explore again.
And maybe, just maybe, I can learn to love and accept and embrace the new woman I am, post-diagnosis, post-disastrous medication, post-trauma.
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