I wake up, start my coffee, and eat a banana. I fix my kids eggs for breakfast and have a couple bites and work on my coffee.
I get kids dressed and they soon take naps. I hop in the shower, but not before glancing at myself in the mirror in shame. I turn away quickly and proceed to shower thoroughly, because I'm fat and don't want to stink.
I get out of the shower and repeat the shameful glance in the mirror. I begin choosing what to wear.
I pull out shorts, put them on, look in the mirror, and notice every bit of cellulite and excess jiggle. I decide against shorts, and go with yoga leggings. I put on a tank top, notice my huge arms, and opt for a tee shirt. I notice my huge arms again, but by now I'm exhausted emotionally, so I don't care.
I make lunch- usually meat and vegetables. The kind from the freezer. I feed my kids and myself. I make more coffee.
We all go outside where I feel I might as well be naked. Everyone's looking. At me. At my huge arms. My huge legs. My huge cankles. My chins.
I get through it solely for my kids to be able to play.
Inside we go. We play inside and do chores. I begin dinner- again, meat and vegetables and a small amount of carbs. All cooked on the stove.
We eat. Bath time is next.
The kids go to bed, leaving me infinite time to work out and stare at myself in the mirror with hatred.
I'm in a fat suit. This isn't me. I don't look like this. Its not who I am... or not who I think I am.
I'm supposed to be beautiful, like many say I am. I'm supposed to be admirable... I'm not supposed to look like this.
I go to the bathroom, praying I go number two, or gather the courage to puke.
Neither happens. I resume my squats and kickboxing. The weight stays, as a constant reminder that I'll never be who I want to be. I'll never walk a runway. I'll never be good enough. I'll never let anyone see me naked.
I don't have an ED. I don't have dysmorphic disorder.
I'm a woman who is compared to Beyonce, Kim K, Rihanna, Tyra.
I'm a woman. Just a woman.