I look upon my expanding body, rolls of fat protrude and spill over the fabric of my underwear. In the mirror, I see before me my naked frame, I see in all its glorious details my failure as a woman, as a person. I see my failure to control the simplest of things, myself. God how I crave that control.
Casting my eyes up and down the bitterness of my reflection I sigh and promise myself tomorrow will be different, like I did for all the yesterdays I can ever remember.
Empty promises always seem to sit best on a full stomach.
The voices in my head differ in opinion, some tell me it doesn’t matter, they tell me to remember what we have learned, remember what is important and that I can lose weight again without also losing my mind. But another tells me that there is no point, it won’t be different, that voice is easier to listen too, believing it comes naturally and without need for change.
Even Bel, who has always been there, hiding in the darkness of the shadows, Bel who waits for moments such as these to strike me down with her seductive lure, even she has given up on me, I really must be a lost cause. She tells me quietly but firmly to just get out now before it gets too late, before they have to lift me out of the window with a crane while bemused onlookers tut and gasp at the socially unacceptable creature that I have become.
“Bail out now” Bel hisses, “so they don’t have to pay extra for an extra-large coffin, bail out for all our sakes, before it becomes so bad that the only thing you are remembered for is your startling and horrifying physical appearance.”
I was somebody’s mother once, somebody’s wife, someone people talked to about their problems. Before cravings of food became subconsciously more important than craving the company of family and friends. Before I simply gave up.