When I was in fifth grade, I reached 100 pounds. And I’m not talking about money, I’m talking about weight. Weight that has dragged me down for a decade. A decade of self-loathing and regretting. Regretting the whole plate of cookies I just ate. But my God, did they taste good!
I think of the first time I ran with my dad when I was nine…
“Daddy have we ran a mile, yet?”
“No, not yet, we’re about half way there!”
And now I can’t stop. I can’t stop because I’m afraid of that weight, and I’m not talking about the fear of fat that consumes me. I’m talking about the weight on my chest because it’s hard to breathe if that scale shows one more pound. One pound too much, I’m fine. I’m fine, but not really.
I’m scared of rolls and I mean carbs. Carbs that I consume on a daily basis, but I’m Italian, that’s what we do. We eat.
Eating is good.
Food is love.
Love is great!
But when I glance into mirrors, I don’t like what I see. And I’m not talking about how pretty I am, I’m talking about the bloating of my stomach. Protruding forward like I’m pregnant with a gallon of water. I just drank a gallon of water so I wouldn’t eat.
You can’t eat if you are full to the brim.
And, me, I’m overflowing with overwhelming fear!
When I was in fifth grade, I reached 100 pounds. 100 pounds of hate and self-consciousness. 100 pounds too much, I cried. Because I let that number define me more that I let the words I write. One Hundred Pounds.