Five Pounds to Freedom
I always need to lose five pounds. Always. If I lose five pounds, I need to lose five more. If I gain two pounds, I still need to lose five. It doesn't have to make sense to you people; it makes sense to me. Five pounds less, I will be happier, healthier, more fun, more sexy and a much faster runner. Five pounds less, my yoga practice will soar, my dating circle expand and my ass will look amazing. Five pounds less, I will be a free woman. Free at last.
Any evidence to the contrary, I toss aside. So it doesn't matter that I actually dated the most guys when I was nearly seven pounds heavier. It does not matter that I ran my fastest half-marathon and completed my only triathlon with a little more cushin for the pushin. Sure I can think of times that I was blissfully happy with five pounds more of me, and during those times, I still needed to lose five pounds.
Any and all evidence even remotely in support of losing five pounds, I manipulate and internalize so that it fits into the schema I've created about myself. How is this working out for me, you wonder? Well... Last week I walked into my ex-boyfriend's room. In the dark, I saw the trunk where I formerly kept my belongs was filled. It looked like he was storing his linens there. I stood perfectly still. He has replaced me, I thought. It is like I was never even here. My trunk is occupied. His entire life is occupied with things other than me. I am a complete idiot for even being here. I certainly didn't need to eat out again, and I definitely didn't need gelato. Fucking gelato. I need to lose five pounds. If I lost five pounds, I would not be bearing this repeated rejection. I started to cry.
Witnessing me unraveling, he kindly masked his annoyance and told me that it was his clean, unfolded laundry that he just put there to fold.
"Oh," I said. "Like a laundry basket?" I wiped my eyes, touched my stomach, reminded myself to do extra crunches at the gym tomorrow.
"Yes. So get that story you created out of your head."
I attached heaps of meaning to the trunk being full - that he doesn't want me in his life and has occupied it with tons of things to indicate that, that he doesn't want my things there anymore, of course, he doesn't love me. Then I crazily tied it back to my story that I need to lose five pounds. If I lose five pounds, I will be great. If I am great, no one will break up with me. People don't break up with people who are great.
The next day, I ran on the treadmill thinking about those five pounds and what they really mean to me. Five pounds are not hard to lose, especially for a borderline nutrition expert who works for an athletic company. I am purposely not losing the five pounds. Why was I holding onto five pounds?
Why do we hold onto anything? Because we are actually scared of who we would be sans excuses. Um, ourselves. If I lost the five pounds, how would I explain failure and rejection? How would I rationalize drinking wine as my coping mechanism? What would be my excuse? I would have to stop being so hard on myself. Worst of all, I would actually have to be. Without a future motivator rooted so deep within me, I would be forced to realize that my body actually isn't screaming for anything. My body is rested, strong, and fine. The five pounds live in my mind, and I am afraid to be in there without them. I'm afraid to just be me. Being me scares the shit out of me. I am A LOT. My deepest fear actually is that I am powerful beyond measure.
And so, to avert my power, I need to lose five pounds.
Emma Dinzebach
Any evidence to the contrary, I toss aside. So it doesn't matter that I actually dated the most guys when I was nearly seven pounds heavier. It does not matter that I ran my fastest half-marathon and completed my only triathlon with a little more cushin for the pushin. Sure I can think of times that I was blissfully happy with five pounds more of me, and during those times, I still needed to lose five pounds.
Any and all evidence even remotely in support of losing five pounds, I manipulate and internalize so that it fits into the schema I've created about myself. How is this working out for me, you wonder? Well... Last week I walked into my ex-boyfriend's room. In the dark, I saw the trunk where I formerly kept my belongs was filled. It looked like he was storing his linens there. I stood perfectly still. He has replaced me, I thought. It is like I was never even here. My trunk is occupied. His entire life is occupied with things other than me. I am a complete idiot for even being here. I certainly didn't need to eat out again, and I definitely didn't need gelato. Fucking gelato. I need to lose five pounds. If I lost five pounds, I would not be bearing this repeated rejection. I started to cry.
Witnessing me unraveling, he kindly masked his annoyance and told me that it was his clean, unfolded laundry that he just put there to fold.
"Oh," I said. "Like a laundry basket?" I wiped my eyes, touched my stomach, reminded myself to do extra crunches at the gym tomorrow.
"Yes. So get that story you created out of your head."
I hate it when they use my principles against me.
I attached heaps of meaning to the trunk being full - that he doesn't want me in his life and has occupied it with tons of things to indicate that, that he doesn't want my things there anymore, of course, he doesn't love me. Then I crazily tied it back to my story that I need to lose five pounds. If I lose five pounds, I will be great. If I am great, no one will break up with me. People don't break up with people who are great.
The next day, I ran on the treadmill thinking about those five pounds and what they really mean to me. Five pounds are not hard to lose, especially for a borderline nutrition expert who works for an athletic company. I am purposely not losing the five pounds. Why was I holding onto five pounds?
Why do we hold onto anything? Because we are actually scared of who we would be sans excuses. Um, ourselves. If I lost the five pounds, how would I explain failure and rejection? How would I rationalize drinking wine as my coping mechanism? What would be my excuse? I would have to stop being so hard on myself. Worst of all, I would actually have to be. Without a future motivator rooted so deep within me, I would be forced to realize that my body actually isn't screaming for anything. My body is rested, strong, and fine. The five pounds live in my mind, and I am afraid to be in there without them. I'm afraid to just be me. Being me scares the shit out of me. I am A LOT. My deepest fear actually is that I am powerful beyond measure.
And so, to avert my power, I need to lose five pounds.
Emma Dinzebach
Posted by Emma Dinzebach at 10/3/2011 12:06 PM 
Categories: What I Think Now
Tags: Emma Dilemma Emma Dinzebach fear of poweful beyond measure lose five pounds five pounds to freedom
Categories: What I Think Now
Tags: Emma Dilemma Emma Dinzebach fear of poweful beyond measure lose five pounds five pounds to freedom
Who knew five pounds could be such a teacher. You are great.
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Great post Emma! This one needs to be published!
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