Fat Scars
I went bathing suit shopping. Seeing as how the last time I wore a bathing suit, I got stuck on my back and needed the help of a couple of friends to get up out of the sand (picture a beached whale, and you'll be on the right track) - I was slightly intimidated by the whole process. Now, even though this summer I'm a great deal smaller than I was last year - my body is not nearly the shape or consistency that I desire it to be in. I'm soft and saggy with loose skin that is no longer perky or plumped by the fat that had once grown to enormous proportions underneath. Areas between my legs and under my arms are discolored and... well, droopy.
Sexy.
Beyond that? I have fat scars - i.e. stretch marks. These marks on my skin resemble scars of one who has been in some kind of horrific accident - or mauled by a large carnivorous animal. Fleshy, metallic-looking, and oh-so-unattractive these marks cover my underarms, stomach, legs, and - other unmentionable locations. Even when the surrounding areas are tanned to a golden bronze, these marks remain a shiny-pinkish hue. They are my fat scars.
For every external scar, I have a dozen emotional ones. Fear based on the reality of past experience often completely paralyzes me. This past weekend, I had opportunity to go to the beach (thus, the bathing suit shopping). Even though it was hot and I was ROASTING on the sand, it took seeeeeeeeveral minutes before I worked up the courage to strip off my jeans - exposing my short-clad-white-as-the-winter-snow legs. And sometimes if there is a group of people congregating (store, parking lot, mall, etc...) I will take the long way around so as to avoid (what I predict would be) stares and jeers. LOGICALLY, I know that these fears are irrational, and that I should not allow them to dictate what I wear in the ocean or the path that I trot down to get to the sliding doors at the Wal-Mart. And yet sometimes, I do. The emotional wreckage that I contend with on a daily basis provides interesting fodder for my psyche, and allows the little fish and sponges of my past a place to dwell and grow.
And so... much more damaging than the physical scars are the emotional scars. By not cleaning out the wreckage and facing the demons head on, I've done my spirit and my body a disservice. I know this may sound a little extreme coming from someone who has lost 50+ pounds, but I see myself slipping back into old patterns and habits. When my feelings are hurt, or I'm bored, or angry, or excited, or happy, or sleepy, or stressed out to the MAX - I have found myself turning to food again. Crappy food. It gives me a temporary high in a place of solace and peace - that doesn't last much past the fork tickling my tongue. This has been going on for a few weeks now - and it's time to stop.
I refuse to have these victories stolen from me.
I refuse to rely on my own power to conquer this beast.
I refuse to get lazy and complacent.
I refuse to let food be my friend.
I refuse to allow this sin to be entertained for even one more SECOND.
I refuse - very simply - to go back to the way I was before.
So, even though the emotional scars may not be smoothed over and buffed away in the course of a year... 5 years.... 10 years.... 100 years - the physical scars of the sadness and sickness that had once completely engulfed my existence will always be a helpful, albeit ugly, reminder of what I have the potential of being. I'll never try to eradicate them with lasers or expensive lotions - because they will forever spur me toward better choices, better thinking, better living.
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