Crying in Primark...
- By girly-d
- On 21/11/2018
- 1 comments
Up until recently I 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 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 and 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.
Then I was diagnosed with a thyroid disorder...which meant even more medication and I was put on a high calorie carb laden diet in order to build me back up.
I took so many tablets I rattled when I walked.
My alcohol-addicted head and my skeletal body lost touch with each other and my malnourished, chemically overloaded system struggled to cope with all the new toxins it was being asked to process.
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 didn't matter in hospital...I was too ill too care...and we all wore pj's and jogging bottoms anyway so no one really stood out.
Plus there were no mirrors there to speak of. 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 I held in my arms would fit me.
And I left with my head down and empty handed.
And I know I 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 the opposite.
I just saw in the mirror the damage that I'd done to myself. The strain that I'd put my already exhausted body through by constantly 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'm no longer size 8.
I cried because my body kept me alive despite what I did to it.
And I cried because I'm grateful that I am no longer that sad, lonely alcoholic girl on a sofa.
So if my jeans are a 12 these days, I don't actually care. Because I could be in the ground not needing jeans.
It's kind of a small price to pay for simply being here today. So i'll take it on the chin.
That brand-new double one of mine...