May trigger–be careful, friends.
I must say, I was surprised to see so many new people interact with my blog after that last post! I am truly honored you want to read this outlet from me. Welcome, then, to the new faces and welcome back to those who were already following.
…I hope this entry doesn’t scare you off.
I need to talk about my eating disorder recovery. It’s a heavy topic, but I need to address it since half of my blog’s title is inspired by my recovery story. I’m putting the rest of this under a cut because I don’t want anyone to read this who may be hurt by it.
I remember writing this entry, flipping out admitting my weight to strangers on the internet. I find this entry a bit hilarious because that version of me would be flipping tables about what I’m about to admit right now.
I weigh 138 pounds.
The fact that I am looking at this sentence and a) not cringing, b) not crying, and c) not going to go throw up in the bathroom marks immutable progress. This next sentence, though, still leaves me remnants of shame and guilt.
I have gained almost 40 pounds since starting my recovery.
I am shaking my head at that one, dear reader, no smile on my face.
I know I am healthier, better, and stronger than I have ever been. My squat max is almost twice my body weight to good depth (my last meet I squatted 253 with ease), and I can bench press close to my body weight for reps. Despite all of these knowings, despite participating in three powerlifting meets with Nationals next month, despite H reassuring me over and over and over that he loves this strong and shapely me, I am still ashamed to admit I have gained weight, even knowing my muscle definitely weighs more. My dad tried guessing my weight the other day and he thought I was in the 110 range, so I know no one would be able to guess my weight. But the importance of this number seems to be stapled to my brain.
I improved about weighing myself compulsively over the past few years. I own a bathroom scale because I can trust myself with it using it properly now. But using it “properly” can be justified. The past two meets, in order to drop weight (powerlifting is sadly a weight class sport), I did relapse. I messed up.
I didn’t hide it, though. I told H immediately and he said that I can call on him 24/7 for a lifeline. I used that phone-a-friend this past November when I was triggered with the intent to purge when I got home. The feeling passed, and I have not participated in those behaviors since then. But the temptation is always there, I would be lying to say it wasn’t. Powerlifting’s double edged sword is that I want to be a closer to my 132 weight class. I can either do that through losing gradually (dieting, increasing exertion in exercise) or do a water cut and fast during the week leading up to the meet. The first option is doable, but has me counting calories, which can be dangerous. The second option is exhausting and even more triggering than losing the weight gradually.
I shouldn’t care what weight class I’m in. One of my favorite PL bloggers, whose background is remarkably similar to mine, stresses the importance of NOT stressing about your weight class. Yet I still do.
I am glad I am out of the deepest chasm of my anorexia, but I still live with its echoes and shadows every day. Maybe the best thing to do right now is live, go into the meet at whatever weight I want, and just focus on getting stronger/performing better. That might mean I might break the “scary” frontier of 140, leading up to 15o. Oh dear.
I don’t have the answer to this one yet–we will see.