My body. My choice. In all things.
When I got my eating under control, I acquired a new level of responsibility for my body. I was purposefully aware of everything that went into it. And as time went on, I took on various commitments to take practical actions toward caring for my vessel. And by practical I mean specific, quantifiable, measurable steps. What a workout looks like and how many days a week I will do that. How much water I will drink a day. How much sleep I will get and what that means about getting to bed. How many journal pages I will write every day. How many minutes I will meditate. Whatever I need to put in place to consistently take care of myself.
Before that, I didn’t know what went into my body because I did not want to know. I didn’t know how my time was spent because I didn’t want to know how much time I wasted. I didn’t want to look. And I didn’t want to see the results.
But not knowing makes everything worse. The stories in my head vacillated wildly from a total lack of consequences, to a fate worse than anything imaginable. My head is a dangerous neighborhood.
Not looking never did me any good.
And looking always let me see that my list of problems is truly finite. There is an end. And (so far anyway) my issues are all surmountable through attention and action.
After all, I never thought I would be able to stop eating compulsively, and here we are, 18+ years later, and sugar doesn’t control me anymore.
I am reminded this week that it’s more important than ever that I be aware of and responsible for my body. Fully. And unapologetically. My body. My choice. In all things.
onceafatgirl 