Lil Sis and I went to Kohl's on Saturday. She wanted to get some working out clothes in an attempt to motivate herself to actually workout. I tagged along as Kohl's is extremely cheap, and at this point nearly all of my clothes have holes in them or are just completely falling apart.*
So I grabbed some autumn/winter shirts to try on, and some sweaters and tank tops because you can never have too many sweaters or tank tops, especially if you can find tank tops without the stupid built-in "bra." As I would be wearing most of those shirts with my black jeans once the weather stops sucking, I also grabbed a pair of black jeans in the juniors section so I could see how the shirts would look with black jeans.
Trying on clothes in a shop should not be a big deal. But when you have suffered an eating disorder, trying on clothes in a shop is a big f**king deal. It can be about as traumatic an experience as an ex-soldier who suffers from PTSD suddenly hearing gunshots outside his house.
Approximately 15 seconds after entering the changing room, I tried to put on the black jeans. Mudd jeans, size 3.
They were too small.
I almost had a total meltdown in the dressing room at Kohl's.
It was downhill from there. Nothing fit. I looked like a frigging beluga in every shirt I tried on.
Nothing can unravel your sanity quite like trying on new clothes, because it is a surefire way to discover precisely how fat you have gotten.
Lil Sis tried to console me by telling me over and over again that I can't really judge myself based on the number on a pair of skinny jeans made for teenage girls. I understand the sense in this, but it doesn't help. I'm too fat for size 3 jeans. This is catastrophic. This is one of the worst things that could ever happen. I should be taken out back and shot like a rabid dog.
I realize that I am being ridiculous, I really do. But knowing that and dealing with it are two different things.
On a day-to-day basis, I wear long skirts, or sweatpants that are a few sizes too big. The skirts do not have a size. This past winter, I started wearing jeans again, and even that was a major accomplishment because the four pairs of jeans that I own are Express size 2, which would have sent me over the edge a few years ago and been categorized as "fat pants," but are now "safe."
3 in juniors/teens sizes is pushing it. 5 = death.
The response I get from voicing this is fairly unanimous across the board: "Shut the f**k up, at least you can still squeeze yourself into a 3; I can't even fit in [insert ##], etc etc etc"
so I do my best to swallow the despair and keep quiet, because the last thing I want to do is make someone else feel badly about their body. Lil Sis hovers between sizes 4 and 6 (or 5 and 7 in juniors), but I don't look at her and think she's fat. She has an amazing figure. She looks like she paid ten figures for her boobs. (In our family Lil Sis definitely wins at boobs). Lil Sis looks amazing.
Why the helllllllllllllll can't I look at myself the same way I look at other people??
I spent the rest of the weekend in a state of intense agitation. As a result of this stress, my digestive system is now in open rebellion. And because the ED monster was awoken in the Kohl's dressing room, instead of taking the medication that would settle my stomach issues, I'm just letting the IBS run rampant because I know it's making me lose weight. It's not the kind of weight loss that will stay off, but it makes me feel better.
Feeling happy and comforted in a state of digestive agony and extreme dehydration should not happen. It goes against all of the laws of nature.
But sure just eat something, your eating disorder isn't really an Illness now is it.
IN OTHER NEWS I am getting pretty good at playing the Rains of Castamere on the upright bass with the bow. A video of this may be forthcoming.
*I can't sew very well, but I can embroider, and embroidering techniques will make repairs to clothes last much longer.