Tag Archives: bones

Maybe Moving On Or Getting Back to “Normal”

I finally got tired of my reflection. My boyfriend posted photos of us from a weekend away on social media and someone had the audacity to ask me (not-so-subtly) if I was expecting. I know I have put on weight since the miscarriage. I am guesstimating 7-10lbs from how I look and how my clothes don’t fit. Honestly, I am too terrified to step on my scale until I have dropped some weight.

After the weekend and the hurtful comments, I looked at my pudgy arms in the mirror while I was applying eye liner. They have become soft and shapeless like my heart after I lost the baby. “Enough,” I told myself. “It’s enough now.”

I’ve been back to gym 3 days in a row. There was no shoe shopping involved or sandwich motivation (where I buy myself food for going to workout). I felt more energetic, less depressed. Perhaps this was the turning of a corner? I don’t want to get my hopes up too soon. I have found that this grief knows no end; some days I am fine and others I am broken.

I have binged once and purged once. I have actively restricted a few times. I knew that eventually I would get back to “normal”, but so far it hasn’t been so vicious. Part of me wants a healthy body to have another baby and part of me just wants my agony to show itself in bones.

The truth is, one day I was pregnant and my life had changed forever. A few weeks later I was no longer pregnant and my life could not go back to what it was before. There is no normal after that.

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Conversations With Co-Workers (Part Deux)

Conversations With Co-Workers (Part Deux)

I know, I know… I should stop talking to my co-workers. I should especially stop talking to my co-workers about anything related to ED, weight or food. Here is a snippet of today’s winning conversation:

“We don’t want to look like those dancers at New York City Ballet; all chest bones and ribs,” says the girl who shares my office.*
“I do,” I reply candidly, feeling for mine which are no longer visible. “I love chest bones.”
“No. You have to own your body,” she challenges me. “You know, like Queen Latifah. Everybody loves her and she is all curves.”
Umm, thanks. You just compared me to an obese woman and told me to own it.

*This is the same co-worker who is responsible for her “F**k The Fat” statement. We spend an absurd amount of time discussing our bodies, calories and wine consumption. I know she means well, but she always seems to miss the mark. Skinny b**ch.

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