Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > Take Two Years
The annual Pink Papaya Christmas party. I'm not going to lie and say it isn't fabulous. I, Maggie Beckham, work with 11 other crazy, twenty-something's, and to say for a second that putting us all together with gifts and alcohol isn't a blast, would be a vicious non-truth from the pit of hell...really. The past 2 years I've participated promised fun, and fun was supplied, so give me a good reason not to go back. Oh, trust me. I had plenty. One huge reason, being my new diet.
Sure, for the Holiday's, one needs to count on not losing any weight. One should probably even count on gaining, but at this point in the game, I'd lost twenty pounds. Twenty beautiful, marvelous, magnificent pounds of tired, were forever off of my body. No way was I going to slow down. No way in hell.
I've never necessarily been huge. 5'7. 147 pounds. I wore a happy size 8 in pants, and honestly, I should probably have been pretty excited about my tall, lean-ness. I'm not. I look in the mirror and see layers and layers of fatty coating that I'm sure the world sees as well. I. Hate. It.
Every once in awhile, amidst all of the good, obedient days of my diet, I would eat. I would indulge on all of the things I'd been so deprived of, and let myself just relax for that one day. That's okay. Everyone deserves a break. Even me, Fatty McFatFat. I just needed days to inhale happily, you know? To taste chocolate, and says, "Fuck, yes. This is why being a woman doesn't suck so much ass too much of the time." Humans have limits, and after two weeks at a time of carrots and dry oats, I'd met mine, shook hands with it, invited it in for tea...calorie-free of course.
People (women) can only take so much.
So, this year, at the annual Pink P-girls Christmas party, I indulged. Maggie Beckham ate so much, her stomach expanded until it felt like a big, purple bruise. Maggie is also well aware that talking in third person is very lame, but Maggie owns this, and you have the freedom to stop reading....even though Maggie knows you won't. Anyway, it's safe to say I ate the 3,500 calories it takes to gain a pound, and I felt it.
In those moments, I felt like I'd never felt in my whole life. Privacy wasn't an option, but desperation had taken over, you know? Sadness and self-loathing were the powers at work in that instant, and I did the only thing I knew to do.
I walked into the bathroom, closing the door, turning the lock. I put my face in the corner, shedding three tears, maybe for, and then, I did something I haven't done since. I fell on the floor, hugged my knees to my chest, and prayed. I prayed for an answer, a feeling of peace. It didn't come. It never happened...it still hasn't.
In every health class I had ever taken, and in any health class I'm sure any of you have ever been a part of, you learn about eating disorders. I, love food. Starving myself isn't really an option, well, it wasn't really an option, but then I thought about the other windows of opportunity that might still exist.
I thought, "Well. I could always just...throw up."
Then I did. That day, I lost every feeling of respect I'd ever had for myself in my whole life. I felt the soreness in my throat and the swelling in my glands. I felt the sadness of desperation, and I felt the dampness beneath my eyes, and around my nose, considering my allergies partied after the release they'd just been given.
I felt glorious. Isn't that sick? I felt like no backtracking had been done at all, considering the contents of my stomach were, in that exact moment, making their way through the public waterworks system, and I had beaten obesity. That's how I felt.
How do I feel now? I feel tired. I feel like I'm sitting here, 127 pounds, waiting for something good to happen. I feel like my weight seesaws because sometimes, I just don't want to feel the vomit scorching my already sore throat. I feel like I don't want to smell the way it makes me smell anymore.
It's all feeling. I think I've accepted hating the person I am, and resigned myself to the fact, that changing the outside is the only way the inside can feel okay. Just for a little bit.
(I know it's short, but bear with me. Dad's in the hospital, and I'm trying my best to keep up with...life, i guess.)
Sure, for the Holiday's, one needs to count on not losing any weight. One should probably even count on gaining, but at this point in the game, I'd lost twenty pounds. Twenty beautiful, marvelous, magnificent pounds of tired, were forever off of my body. No way was I going to slow down. No way in hell.
I've never necessarily been huge. 5'7. 147 pounds. I wore a happy size 8 in pants, and honestly, I should probably have been pretty excited about my tall, lean-ness. I'm not. I look in the mirror and see layers and layers of fatty coating that I'm sure the world sees as well. I. Hate. It.
Every once in awhile, amidst all of the good, obedient days of my diet, I would eat. I would indulge on all of the things I'd been so deprived of, and let myself just relax for that one day. That's okay. Everyone deserves a break. Even me, Fatty McFatFat. I just needed days to inhale happily, you know? To taste chocolate, and says, "Fuck, yes. This is why being a woman doesn't suck so much ass too much of the time." Humans have limits, and after two weeks at a time of carrots and dry oats, I'd met mine, shook hands with it, invited it in for tea...calorie-free of course.
People (women) can only take so much.
So, this year, at the annual Pink P-girls Christmas party, I indulged. Maggie Beckham ate so much, her stomach expanded until it felt like a big, purple bruise. Maggie is also well aware that talking in third person is very lame, but Maggie owns this, and you have the freedom to stop reading....even though Maggie knows you won't. Anyway, it's safe to say I ate the 3,500 calories it takes to gain a pound, and I felt it.
In those moments, I felt like I'd never felt in my whole life. Privacy wasn't an option, but desperation had taken over, you know? Sadness and self-loathing were the powers at work in that instant, and I did the only thing I knew to do.
I walked into the bathroom, closing the door, turning the lock. I put my face in the corner, shedding three tears, maybe for, and then, I did something I haven't done since. I fell on the floor, hugged my knees to my chest, and prayed. I prayed for an answer, a feeling of peace. It didn't come. It never happened...it still hasn't.
In every health class I had ever taken, and in any health class I'm sure any of you have ever been a part of, you learn about eating disorders. I, love food. Starving myself isn't really an option, well, it wasn't really an option, but then I thought about the other windows of opportunity that might still exist.
I thought, "Well. I could always just...throw up."
Then I did. That day, I lost every feeling of respect I'd ever had for myself in my whole life. I felt the soreness in my throat and the swelling in my glands. I felt the sadness of desperation, and I felt the dampness beneath my eyes, and around my nose, considering my allergies partied after the release they'd just been given.
I felt glorious. Isn't that sick? I felt like no backtracking had been done at all, considering the contents of my stomach were, in that exact moment, making their way through the public waterworks system, and I had beaten obesity. That's how I felt.
How do I feel now? I feel tired. I feel like I'm sitting here, 127 pounds, waiting for something good to happen. I feel like my weight seesaws because sometimes, I just don't want to feel the vomit scorching my already sore throat. I feel like I don't want to smell the way it makes me smell anymore.
It's all feeling. I think I've accepted hating the person I am, and resigned myself to the fact, that changing the outside is the only way the inside can feel okay. Just for a little bit.
(I know it's short, but bear with me. Dad's in the hospital, and I'm trying my best to keep up with...life, i guess.)
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