I open my eyes. The bright rays of sunlight find their way into my eyes. It almost sets my dark, brown eyes on fire, so I close them as fast as I can. No, no, no. I don’t want to wake up. I don’t want to face the harsh reality today, not yet. I try to fall asleep again. I even turn around my pillow, so I can enjoy its cold side, but even this trick won’t work now. I’m wide awake and I know it. I get up, slowly make my way to my closet and get out a bra, top and a legging. I’ll save my little picture-party for later, I think. I look my biggest enemy right in the eye. Well, metaphorically speaking, that is. I know my scales don’t have eyes, but if they did, I’m sure they would look at me furiously. Like an angry school teacher, who just found out you didn’t do your homework. Or like your mother, when you didn’t clean your room even though she told you ten times that you had to. In this case, I would have to explain why I decided to fall back into my old eating habits. My dirty little secret, late at night, when I’m all alone. I would say I didn’t want to, but I just hád to. I’m an emotional eater, and sometimes food is all I have to make me feel better. It’s a medicine, and at the same time a virus. And now it was enough. But before I could start making changes again, I needed to know exactly where I’m at. I needed to face the scales first. I can feel my heart beating underneath my skin. Goosebumps all over my body. Why? It’s just a scale. And I know what it’s going to say anyway. Well, here we go, I guess. What number do I start with this time?
Okay. Breath in, breath out. Take it slow. It’s more than expected, but I haven’t reached the magical number 70 yet. It’s close, though. I can (not so proudly) announce to the world that I weigh 69,8 kg. It’s almost 154 pounds. I know some of you may laugh now. We’re so used to morbidly obese people nowadays that 154 pounds isn’t a shocker anymore. But to me it is. To me, 154 pounds means unhappiness. It means a body that is out of control; poisoned even. I know what I put into it every single day and I want it to stop. Right now. I put on the clothes I laid out on my bed and took a picture. Shameful. I’m not sure whether I’m ready to share it with the world yet. It’s a clear picture of what 69,8 kg looks like. For now, I might keep it in my own personal library. I’ll keep it there to compare newer pictures to, hoping that every single picture I take will be an improvement. Who knows. The road of weight loss is a rocky one. Anyone who tried losing weight can tell you that. Nonetheless, I’m once again trying to make it happen. Why? Well, if we don’t have hopes and dreams to live for, then what else is there, right?