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Crying in Primark...(V)

I've always had a perfect figure.

I could skip into any high street clothes shop, find exactly what I wanted, grab it off the rail and be on my merry way in minutes...no need to queue or faff about in changing rooms. I was a size 8. My clothes were guaranteed to fit.

But then a series of really shit things happened, I got massively addicted to alcohol, and in the process I lost a lot of weight. I went from an 8 to a 6. Then to a 4. 

By the time I reached hospital I was size 0.

So I had to take medication.

Lots and lots of medication. Vitamins, and sleeping tablets, painkillers and anti-anxiety meds...I took so many tablets that I rattled when I walked.

Only my alcohol-addicted head and my now skeletal body had long since lost touch with each other and so my malnourished, chemically overloaded system struggled to cope with everything that it was now being asked to process.

Not to mention the fact that pretty much every single meal in detox involved  white bread or pasta washed down with copious amounts of sugary tea.

So I gained the weight back that I had lost pretty quickly.

Over 2 stone.

And then I gained 2 more for good measure.

It really didn't matter while I was in there... I was far too ill too care...and we all wore pj's and jogging bottoms in there anyway so none of us stood out.

Plus there were no mirrors in there to speak of ... We all had bigger things to think about than whether or not our hair needed brushing...So I only saw my reflection for the first time in Primark months later, once I'd left rehab, and I realised suddenly why nothing that I held in my arms would fit me.

I cried.

Buckets.

As I left with my head down and empty handed.

And I know I may sound shallow or self-absorbed or whatever it is that you may be thinking about me right now.

But I'm not. I'm really truly not.

If anything I'm actually the opposite...

You see, I wasn't crying because my clothes didn'tt fit.

I was crying, because standing in that changing room I could finally see the damage that I'd done to myself. The strain that I'd put my already exhausted body through by  feeding it poison every day for years and blithely expecting it to cope.

The way that I just piled more and more shit on myself and took everything that I once had for granted.

That's why I cried.

Not because I was no longer a size 8. 

I cried because I realised that my body had kept me alive despite every single rubbish thing that I'd done to it.

And I cried because I was grateful that I was no longer that sad, lonely, alcoholic girl sleeping on a sofa.

So if my jeans are a couple of sizes bigger these days, I don't actually care.

It's a small price to pay for simply being here today...because I could be in the ground and not needing any jeans.

And so i'll take everything that's happened to me these last few years on the chin.

This brand-new double one of mine...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Comments

  • Geoff
    • 1. Geoff On 29/11/2018
    Good afternoon Pretty Lady, but most of all, good afternoon Miss Intelectual Lady with Intelligence. :) I do admire you.

    Why is it the most intelligent and decent women end up with the wrong type of men? And the few decent men out there end up with the wrong type of women. Food for thought?

    I raised two daughters, on my own and now neither, of them talk to me and I don't see my grandchildren. That is my pain. Anything else is easy peasy! :)

    I've dated lots and lots and lots, mostly plastic people. You know, the “Barbies” without any real substance. Why are they barbies? Because they haven't endured what you have and become what you have.

    Please God, (if there is a God) send me a women like this! :)

    G,

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