I can’t tell you how much I weigh. For the first time in my life, I’m unsure about that and I’m content.
You see, when I was younger, I got bullied for being on the chubbier side. As the years went on, it became harder to shake off the rude comments that people said. I spent an excessive amount of time working out and monitoring what I ate. Months after losing what some deemed as “baby weight,” I still didn’t feel like I hit my goal.
In retrospect, I believe asking my grandmother for a scale as a birthday gift for me should’ve been a warning sign. Every day after school, I would weigh myself. In addition to that, I weighed myself when I woke up, mid-day, before going to bed, so much so, I’m surprised the batteries didn’t die quicker.
I was aware that my obsessive behavior got worse when I didn’t have to step on the scale to determine my weight. I was able to estimate if I was an ounce or two off based on how much I worked out that day or how many meals I might’ve skipped.
Over the years, it took a very long time for me to accept my size. My actions only got worse – which, I won’t get into too much detail about – partly because I’m ashamed and would never want someone younger than me to get the wrong idea.
A few weeks ago, my mother asked, “How much do you weigh, Dayna?” I was surprised when I didn’t know the answer. I’m no longer stepping on the scale compulsively. I’m practicing a diet and exercise plan that works for me. Back in 2017, I was diagnosed with Graves’ disease. Among the many negative side effects, weight loss is one of them. The pill that I’m on, however, helps balance that out. For the first time, I’m not worried. I’m happy to be alive and able to share my story. So, anytime someone asks me, “How much do you weigh?” I’ll always reply, “I don’t know,” with a smile.