Why I didn't weigh myself this morning

It's sitting on my bathroom floor, collecting dust.

I think about it, every now and again. Wonder what secrets it contains, what numbers it would reveal if I chose to step onto it. Weight in pounds, body fat percentage, muscle mass, bone density, and how hydrated I am.

Yes. I have a very fancy scale.

For the month of February I chose not to weigh myself once. The numbers were beginning to affect my daily life, and I was obsessing over them, turning "133" into my identity.

133 goes to work today. 133 was 131 a week ago, and a month ago was 126. 133 eats a little bit of chocolate and then feels guilty and eats more, and then feels hopeless and afraid that tomorrow the scale will read "worthless" and "pathetic," and decides to eat five slices of pizza and an apple for good measure. If it's going to say I'm worthless anyways, I might as well prove it right. I might as well eat what I want to for once.

No matter how much food I swallow, worthless stays lodged in my throat.

But what does the number even mean? Why is 131 so much better than 132? Why is 120 paradise and 140 or 150 my own personal hell?

So I chose not to even read them. Not to let the numbers even enter my mind. For the whole month of February the scale was shoved in my closet. Hidden from view.

But even that turned sour, because as the month came to a close I knew (KNEW, beyond a shadow of a doubt) that the number had gone up, and I wanted it to have gone up for a reason. So for the last week of February I ate in excess, choosing to overindulged so that I would have no reason to be upset when I weighed myself on March 1st. Hating myself with every swallow.

So that Friday morning, when my personal challenge ended and I could weigh myself again, I found myself close to 10 pounds higher than I'd been 28 short days before.

I keep giving the scale power. Even taking it away gave it some power, because "I'm so pathetic I can't even handle knowing how much I weigh."

It doesn't matter how much I weigh.

It doesn't matter what the scale says.

If I keep believing that I am worthless to the core of my being, wether or not I have a scale in my house at all, I will continue to swallow and drink and stuff and feed the lie that I am not good enough.

Worthless is not who I am.

My body image issues are not the problem. My mistaken identity is.

March has been a sweet month, because I have let the scale collect dust. It's there in case I'm curious what the number is, (it's not a data point I should have to avoid, because that's all it ought to be. Not a reflection of my morality or ability to do good, merely a number) but it's not the first thing I see each morning.

Instead, I've been focusing on rooting myself in the God who loves me. Reading the Bible, finding my identity in my Creator, and recognizing the good and beauty that exists inside me no matter what number I am.


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