The kids were quiet, and I slept in until 7:10 this morning. Right now I’m just sitting, drinking my coffee, still trying to wake up.
My therapist said something interesting at the end of our last session. She said she was so impressed with how long I’d been at the weight loss, how hard I worked, etc. She just wished it didn’t define me.
“I know,” I said. “I know that it defines me and I hate it.”
It’s always been this way. Since I was a little girl. I don’t know how not to let it define me. I’d call it an obsession, but it’s worse than that. She hit the nail on the head. Even when I’m talking and thinking about other things, it’s always an undercurrent.
I blame my mother and uncle. Also my aunt, who still comments. If I were braver, I’d ask her to withhold her comments, because, although well-intended, they are still hurtful. They tell me I’m not good enough as I am, I’d be better with modifications, and I’m in need of improvement. All things I already believe about myself, true, but, when said, they only serve to reinforce those beliefs.
The thing is, they’re not helpful in any way. I’m not there right now. And it takes so long to get there. And what if I don’t get there?
Or what if I get there and can’t stay there? It’s all a huge amount of pressure, is what I’m getting at. It just gives me a headache. One more mountain I have to climb. And somehow remain at the peak.
Aislyn is overwhelmingly wanting to play, so I need to go.