Today is one of those days where recovery doesn't really seem worth it.
I'm having a fat day.
I should have seen this coming, with the way I've been shamelessly devouring anything salty, greasy, fatty, and calorie-laden.
I should have known that all the shame I shook off at the time would eventually find me. And that it would be strong, having had time to build up, while I would be weak, too tired from the mess of carbohydrates I had consumed to fight it off.
Have I gained weight? I don't know. There's no scale here. My measurements haven't gone up, couldn't have gained too much, right? I'm not supposed to be fretting over a few pounds anyway, dammit. I'm better, I'm recovering, I love myself blahblahblahblahblah thingsI'mnotevensureifImeanorbelievemostofthetime blahblahblah.
In all likelihood I just feel a little heavier because B and I didn't eat dinner last night until after midnight.
And it was PASTA.
I don't want to talk about what I eat too much, because to most of you who aren't in recovery, it would seem really, really disgusting. You would think I weighed 190392930023002302lbs. I don't, I assure you. I am of average weight. My BMI is 19.6. Though I am just as surprised I don't weigh 190392930023002302lbs as you are.
But I have to prove to myself that I am stronger than this. I'm about to have my first meal of the day. I contemplated fasting. I miss fasting. But I am making the right decision, I am winning.