caffienated and obese

confessional #1

a full English breakfast I had whilst discussing life with my boyfriend

TW: Brief discussion of eating disorders

Hello!

I am going to be doing something a little different with my twice-weekly uploads from now on. My Wednesday posts will be a diary entry, rambling, stream-of-consciousness type, and my Sunday uploads will stay as my longer essays (can I call them essays? Perhaps elongated brain-farts would be more appropriate). I also think this will help me stop being such a perfectionist, and will allow me to get things online without doing an emotional deal with the devil.

Welcome to my Confessional series! My life seems to resemble that of a barely contained disaster - and I am a chronic over-sharer - so why not write about it on here?

(I would also like to give credit to the wonderful Em on here, whose beautiful work has inspired me to share snippets of my life. Please go and check her out - her writing is a balm for the soul.)

So, today I weighed myself. I know, I know, I know. Someone with an eating disorder weighs herself and is horrified by what she sees. It’s a tale as old as time. The thing with being The Heaviest You Have Ever Been is that you only have to put on a minor amount of weight to keep topping The Heaviest You Have Ever Been.

And, baby, I am an overachiever.

The scales and I perform the same ritual: I step on, as naked as the day I was born and with bone-dry hair (in case having damp hair might add a few extra unwanted grams), and watch the weight tick up in front of my eyes. Sometimes I don’t quite lean my full body weight on the scales, just so I can see what a number other than my one looks like. It’s a shitty routine, and it doesn’t make either of us happy.

Following this, I trotted downstairs, in my baggiest clothing, and promised myself it would be different this time as I poured myself out the recommended portion size of granola and Greek yoghurt. I’m now in a café, drinking a sugary latte to recover from that brief period of health. The world is right again. According to the NHS’ BMI chart, I am off the scale obese. How charming. Why does BMI exist? Does it benefit anyone? Is that just me being a sore loser?

Anyway, I know I probably need to go to the doctors to discuss my weight issues. It’s scary and demoralising in there, though, and it’s easier to hide behind a slice of cake. But, I will be brave. I will sit myself in front of the GP as he panic-reads my medical history.

My, Emma, what a long medical history you have here.

Why, thank you, Doctor. I earned it all myself.

Regardless of all the stuff going on with my body, my life is following a similar chaotic routine. Currently, I am job hunting. Notice how we always say job hunting? Because it is a hunt in this day and age. It’s pretty much a fight to the death just to get an entry-level position. My low point the other day was getting rejected from a farm shop job because, despite my six years of customer service experience, the fact that I have no barista experience for their coffee machine was a deal-breaker. Dear God, let me just sell your eggs then! I’ll sell them better than your coffees, just to spite you. There will be an egg shortage. Let me at them.

I sound angry. Maybe I should get back into meditation and yoga. In my previous yoga classes, I was the youngest by around sixty years, and I honestly loved it. All the lovely old women would swarm upon me when I arrived, fascinated by the young person in her twenties there at the pain-relief yoga. I would leave that session feeling incredible, and like how I imagine the regular youths feel.

I’ve been doing some research for local yoga classes, and I am going to get my stiff arse back in there. My gym membership is collecting dust. I’m going to admit something controversial: I hate the gym. I am tired of forcing myself to go. I find it so incredibly dull. I used to enjoy it once upon a time, but that time is no more. Today, I will liberate myself and cancel my membership. Then I can not exercise without feeling guilty!

As I am writing this very sentence, I just got emailed another job rejection. What a day. Oh well, on to the next! All of these people don’t know what a woman they’re missing out on, clearly.

On a more positive note, I was fortunate enough to spend the last two days with my boyfriend, who I don’t always get to see. We booked a little holiday in Cornwall, which will be my reason to keep chugging along for the next few months. He is a wonderful man and he drinks an astonishing amount of caffiene.

Whilst I finish up my own coffee in the café, it feels important to say that I am now a Coffee Drinker and have been for a while now. I bought my own ground coffee the other day to have in my French press (I know) at home, which just feels like I have taken a step over the threshold of adulthood in a way that I have never done so before. The coffee tastes of running a consistent blog and having more fun amongst the shit-show.

Here are a few photos highlighting my week:

my cat serving looks

the coffee I bought that is my gateway to adulthood

a book I want to read but didn’t buy because adulthood means self-restraint

another book I want to read but exercised even more self-restraint (is this what being grown up is? Endless self-restraint?)

All my love,

Emma