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It’s irrational to believe that one device can possess so much power and have so much influence on my day. The fairly simple innovation determines my mood, actions and behavior. I’ve grown to despise it and cringe each time I pull it out for fear of what it might foretell. At times it’s been my confidant, a motivator, and yet it’s a curse that plagues me.
The scale, used as a common reference for one to manage their weight, developed into an obsessive relationship of mine. Of course, it didn’t start off that way. Like most abusive relationships, it started off innocently before spiraling into a disastrous affair.
Weight and self-image issues began when I was fairly young. As a cheerleader, I grew up feeling monstrous compared to my mostly size two friends. My teenage years were filled with trying new diet fads, starvation and incessant weigh-ins to see if it all paid off.
The dynamic between my mother and aunt played a significant role in my evolving perceptions of beauty. My mother has always been the overweight sister and my aunt the slender, weight-conscious counterpart. I grew up learning that comments about my mother’s weight were negative, as I was reinforced with the notion that if I didn’t watch out I would end up with the same fate. My aunt, on the other hand, was always envied for her slender appearance as she indicated some new eating (well, lack of) plan she was on.
I remember the first time I stepped on the scale and felt ashamed because of the number it displayed. I was 12 years old, watching my aunt conduct her daily weigh in. As she disrobed, she told me how important it was for a woman to maintain her physical appearance. She carefully stepped on the scale and recited her satisfaction. She turned to me and instructed that I needed to start paying more attention to my weight because I was getting curvier (aka fatter). I gleefully stripped down and, as cautiously as my aunt did, stepped up on the scale. I remember the embarrassment taking over me as the number on the scale kept increasing, showing a figure not far off from my grown up aunt’s.
Noticing my dissatisfaction, my aunt consoled me to cut back on my food intake and to start eating like she ate. I started my first diet that day.
Throughout the years I remained committed to my relationship with the scale. As I grew older, I became more dependent and less concerned about the possible health risks a lower number caused.
After my first and only real relationship ended abruptly, my self-esteem was at an all-time low. Shortly thereafter I moved back home and felt for the first time I was not in control of my life. Mostly due to feeling depressed and unattractive, I discovered I could take control of my weight. The positive response I received from a slimmer figure led me down the dangerous mindset that more pounds shed could only be better.
The last couple of years have been difficult, as I’ve taken some drastic measures to control the number on the scale. Each pound lost represented the shedding of the powerless, weak person I let myself become.
However, as my health began to deteriorate I came to the scary realization that I didn’t have a weight that would satisfy my insecurities. In the past year I’ve learned that choosing health is really taking control and while I still have a long road ahead of me, I’m optimistic for the day when a number no longer imprisons me.