I will be the first to admit that now, several--to put it milldly--pounds heavier, these jeans do not fit anymore. If I suck in with all my might and don't mind that my newer and curvier body doesn't want to be in these teeny, tiny jeans, then I can wear them. I don't mind anymore that they don't fit.
I think what scares me is knowing my new size. I have yet to buy any jeans, although I did buy a pair of hollister shorts that actually fit. That aren't tight and a product of me being unwilling to accept who i am now. They fit, and that's good. But the process of searching for jeans, knowing that size has crept up, overwhelms me. it makes me sad, it makes me angry, it makes me wish I was back at 98 pounds. Everything fit, I didn't scrutinize myself endlessly in the mirror, my now-huge chest was deflated to a manaegeable size that was proportionate to my teeny, tiny body.
Seeing myself in pictures, in the mirror, in windows, I want to cry and I want to laugh and I want to accept that I am a new, healthy, happy me. I run 9 miles without a problem. I still overexercise. I stuff my face at times, and the rest of the times I consciously stop eating when I'm full. I haven't binged the way I used to in months, although I drunk eat and high-eat, and I'm acting like I've always wanted to be, and I'm caught between being happy to be happy and being happy because I'm the smallest person in the room. I drank like a sailor this spring weekend because I wanted to, and I didn't nurse my drink because I was scared of the calories. I acted like a college student, and that is a good thing. I can't have it both ways, I guess.
That is what I have to say. It feels good to externalize it for once.
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