𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐄𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 was raised from the ground up knowing nothing but comparison and perfection.
She compared herself to her successful parents, supermodel sister, and glamorous friends. Instead of love, she harbored a raging jealousy for nea...
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S i m o n e
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My mind is in conflict with my heart.
I need to get better. I need to get better. I know I need to get better. But I want to get smaller.
Every time the number on the scale goes up my heart breaks more for my past, present, and future self.
It's hard to remind myself it's for the better, if I never fucking feel better about the changes.
I've gained 8 pounds.
8.
It makes me feel sick -- nauseous. My throat feels like it's closing in on itself.
This was a bad idea, I shouldn't have checked the scale. The last time I did weight restoration I didn't look at the scale for months. But I also wanted that assurance that I was gaining.
I wanted to make sure I was doing this right and yet finding out that I was only made me more frustrated.
Stepping off the scale, I turned to look in the mirror, lifting up my shirt.
I turned to the side, put my hands up, turned back to the front, and flexed my stomach. I did every body-checking pose I could think of.
I could see the differences. Or at least I was convincing myself I could. The more I stared the less I recognized myself.
I was going insane. I was going fucking insane.
I didn't want to see myself, my reflection. How could I? How could I look at myself and not be convinced to starve again?
My brain was on autopilot as I stormed the linen closet and miscellaneous drawer, pulling tape and one of my bedsheets out. I wasn't thinking about how stupid this was as I layered tape onto the mirror, covering the section in which I could see my body so I was just a floating head.
