I am a fifty something year old woman. I’m not sure how that happened. The fifty part,not the woman part. I’ve always been a woman and glad of it. But like most women of my generation, (though I haven’t seen a scientific study, but I’d bet money on it) I have had dysmorphia all my life. That’s that thing where you don’t have a clue what size your body really is. I remember holding up a sweater after my first pregnancy and looking at it and marveling at how tiny I once had been. The problem was: I also remember how fat I’d felt in that sweater. And now? Now I can’t quite believe my eyes. Is that me? I ask when I see a photograph. Surely not. I’m not that fat.
So. I want to lose weight,, yes, even though I am scared to death I will age ten years if I do. But, the weight is not my main concern anymore. I want to have stamina and strength to walk five miles without feeling crippled. I want to eat properly so that the inflammation in my hips doesn’t disrupt my sleep after a measly six hours. I have another thirty years of a good life ahead of me, at least. Well, it could be good.
If you come across these pages and they’ve been abandoned: I have likely abandoned this new, unknown road, and beaten a side path back to that old road of brokenness.
But if not, then I am on the way to looking after myself better and engaged in the journey of transforming the relationship between my body and me.