Today I had an incident happen. Whilst over at the hospital for work, I had someone (presumably a patient) come up to me for a chat, and during this conversation she made the comment ‘you look pregnant’. Now, no unfertilised woman ever, ever wants to hear those words, yet you hear of these things happening all the time. So I laughed it off. And I went back to the office and made jokes about how I obviously need to hit the gym. And the other girls were horrified and said things along the lines of ‘you do not look pregnant!!’ which is what you do.

But the thing is, I know I do. And having someone say out loud what I hate about myself is fucking shit.

I don’t want any sympathy, any comments slandering this stranger, any encouragement to not think about it.

I was OK, until tonight when Mitch suggested we go out somewhere nice for dinner, then I wasn’t happy with anything in my wardrobe because anything tight felt like I looked pregnant and no one wants to see fitted clothing on me. Any dresses too short to show my tree stump thighs (thank you Love Actually, always thought that could easily apply to me since that woman was half the size of me), and anything requiring a strapless bra made my boobs look saggy.

Mitch, god love him, doesn’t understand. He lectures me about me being the only one that can do anything about it, but doesn’t actually make me feel any better about myself. And I don’t need him to make me feel better about myself, I don’t need his approval, but once in a while would be nice, because I don’t need a lecture. And he is an incredibly harsh critic, often saying out loud the things that shouldn’t be said about how people look and their weight and health (most of the time with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other), so if he says that about people around him, I really hate to think what he thinks about me honestly. I don’t want to know because I know it wouldn’t be good, it’s not hard to tell from his actions to me.

I once had a boyfriend tell me (thinking he was being super romantic) that he loved my pudgy stomach, and to never lose it. I was mortified.

And I know I need to do something about it, but it’s hard, everyone knows that, and I know it’s a shithouse excuse, but when I really truly try I’m still getting it wrong. When I think I’m eating healthy I find out afterwards I may as well have eaten a donut for all the hidden sugar in it. Would have made me feel better too. I have a problem with food and how much I eat, and I struggle to control myself, especially if food is there in front of me, and I wish I could just recognise when enough is enough, that I don’t need to eat so much, that I won’t die of starvation.

So in a messed up lesson to myself I said no to a nice dinner out and even skipped dinner at home, and to truly punish myself refused to eat food Mitch brought in to me, despite how angry he was about my refusal to eat, because in my head the only way I’m going to get rid of my phantom baby bump is to get rid of my food intake, which will last about 12 hours before I’m craving chocolate again. May as well start investing in some mu-mus to cover my whole body! I’m just feeling a bit fucked up tonight.

Lots of love,

Eloise

 

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