I have a slightly obsessive sense of time. I count the days to and from things. I see the weekly, monthly, yearly anniversaries of things that aren't even that important. I mark time passing by comparison with what I've done at that time on other days. I have the hours of the day, the days of the week, the months of the year, and the years of my life spread out in some kind of timeline chart in my head, covered with events and memories like post-it-notes.
It's a month ago today that I woke up later than 9am and actually felt, for the first time in months and months, as though I'd slept as much as my body wanted to. I kinda feel like I've spent a lot of the past month sleeping, but then there are worse ways to spend my time.
Two weeks ago today, I was eating tapas in a city full of strangers, proving to myself that I could be myself, on my own, in the unknown, that I could stand the heat, that I could forgo all my beloved privacy and just be out there, in the world, in the moment, eating peaches in the gardens of Moorish palaces and getting lost down narrow streets in the warm night-time.
A week ago today, I met up with a friend who I hadn't seen in two years. She commented on the weight loss, and asked questions, and instead of evading and demuring as I do so very very well, I actually had an open and moderately honest conversation about it. I say moderately honest, because whilst I hinted that it hadn't exactly all been plain sailing and talked a little about my history and issues surrounding myself and my weight, spilling all the beans would have been too much for her, and too much for me, and to be honest the occasion wasn't right, nor do I think our friendship really close enough, for too many beans to be spilled. I may be prying myself open but in so many ways I'm still a shy little secret-keeper, and there's only so much I can handle showing other people of myself. But it was progress.
Today is my 9th completely binge-free day this month. Somehow, I've found my calm again. I'm back in that place where I know I have control, because hey- it's only me, and if I don't have control over me, who does? I can do whatever the hell I want, and if I want to lose weight then I can - not because I have to meet some arbitrary number goal, but because it will help me be happier in my own skin. I can plan and log and control what I eat, but because I enjoy knowing exactly what I'm eating, enjoy planning out my meals, enjoy taking the time to make myself healthy and interesting meals that I can take time over eating and that will satisfy and nourish, instead of because I feel I have to restrict myself as a punishment or to stop myself bingeing. I will make sure I get my exercise, not because I neet to rack up massive deficits or because it's a punishment for over-eating or a way to earn food, but because I love it. Because walking gives me the time to think, to talk to myself, to take myself wherever I want to go. Because running makes me feel fantastic, as though I can achieve all the things I'd never thought I would, as though no one can hold me down. Because doing those push-ups makes me feel strong. Because the burn and the trembling and the aches in my muscles are like a balm to my anxious, doubting, self-critical little mind. They're a 'fuck you' to the bastard mentality in me that tells me all the time that I can't, that I'm weak and pathetic and worthless. They're my body fucking singing.