Today I weighed in at 276.1, which is pretty cool. 72 pounds down in four months. Can't really complain about that. I joked that I wanted to be 250 by Texas Frightmare Weekend, and in all honesty I'm not very far off, but I'm not going to make 250 in the next few days. Ah well, I look a lot better than I did this time last year.
Or so the scale says, anyway.
I still don't see it visually; when I look in the mirror I'm still grossed out by what I see and insecure about the flaws that, to me, are huge and glaring. I was trying on clothes this weekend with my best friend, the two of us sharing a dressing room, and I still turned my back to her while changing my shirt. I didn't want her to see my lumpy, misshapen stomach or the scars like vibrant purple hatchmarks across it. I'm losing weight in my arms and thighs but my calves are as huge as ever, making it impossible for me to wear any of the 'stiletto/skinny jean'-style capris. For some reason, whoever the hell is buying clothes for plus-sized store Torrid right now is smoking crack--- all of the summer line consists of halter tops and Daisy Duke shorts. The store carries up to 4X, but I don't know a lot of size 26-28 girls who want to be parading around in tiny shorts that barely cover the hemline of their panties. I have so much cellulite my legs look like pantyhose filled with marbles, and in no way do I want to strut that shit this summer. I'm pretty pale in general but my legs are paper-white thanks to never seeing the light of day; I hate wearing shorts even when it's in the firm triple digits in Texas. In elementary school, when I was just starting to get big, a girl named Jeanette told me that I looked like I didn't have any knees because my legs were so fat. At the time, I was playing softball and running a lot, so they were thick with muscle anyway, but they were one of the first places I started to gain weight. My mom, even at 400 pounds, had slender ankles and shapely calves. I have dumpy, thick legs. They're one of my least-favorite features about myself; I don't think I've ever seen a picture of myself in a dress or shorts or anything else and not cringed or tried to crop it to remove my legs. I'd rather be a disembodied torso in the photo than standing on these tree-trunk stalks of mine. Wide-calf boots aren't even usually big enough unless they have a stretch panel somewhere in them; this is also the reason I can't own cowboy boots even though I've wanted them since high school.
I'm in a bleak period right now because it's been almost a year since my mom and the ripple effect of her death is still hitting me hard. This weekend I'll be attending the annual horror convention in Dallas, Texas Frightmare, and this will be the first one I've ever gone to without my mom. She was friends with virtually everyone who goes and this year simply won't be the same without having her there. I spend my days in this house surrounded by memories of her, not just her tangible things but thinking about lying on the couch watching TV or climbing on her bed to tell her about my day, and it's rough. I come home and the only person waiting here for me is my cat, who while great company is a poor substitute. I miss her so much sometimes it hurts to breathe. I went on a bender for the last two days where all I did was lie on the couch eating sugar-free Popsicles and watching Disney movies. I just had to turn the real world off and live in the familiar for awhile.
I don't know how to shake this. It feels like my heart isn't in anything. From the outside my life is going fine--- I'm losing weight, I have incredible friends, I'm doing well in school (I got named Marketing Student of the Year at my college this week), I'm about to start working on a feature horror film, etc. But I am just so sad, and I'm sleepwalking through everything I'm doing.
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