On December 19th, I threw my remaining three cigarettes down the toilet in our cozy little bathroom. Then, I burst into tears. It was the scariest thing I’ve done, but this weekend marked my two-month mark.
Which brings me to another terrifying benchmark – today.
Today, I started an entry about about I cannot bear that I cringe when I look in the mirror. I started to write about how I sometimes squint to avoid the parts of myself I don’t like, how the gorgeous happy girl that I see in my mind’s eye doesn’t usually translate to the girl I hate facing in the mirror. I tried to write about this problem that’s been pestering me for so long – about how if my dissatisfaction with my reflection is 80% mysterious self-loathing and only 20% actual legitimate weight gain, how do I go about shifting my perception?
I wanted to write about how this, too, can be a disorder – this inability to see things for what they are, instead morphing them into a huge hairy deal that requires breaking down into tears every time another pair of pants doesn’t fit.
About how quitting smoking makes you gain weight, about how living a happy comfortable wintery life with your love makes you gain weight, about how I try so hard to really listen when the people who love me tell me how beautiful they think I am because it’s difficult, see, to separate the impression you make on other people from the impression you make on yourself. And it’s a tough lesson to learn that, ultimately, it’s your own that counts.
So instead of writing about how sick I am of my reflection, of these extra twenty or thirty pounds that have invited themselves to stay on my tummy and hips, instead of writing how terrified I am to open myself up to the reality of feeling overweight, I decided to do something about it.
Actually, make that a “we”. Stuart, for his own reasons as well as for reasons of being heartbroken every time he sees me break down in front of the mirror, has decided to join Weight Watchers with me. And looking back at Deb’s first step, and her honesty that inspired me, I know that this could be a very good thing.
And good things, good decisions, I’m starting to learn, are a little terrifying. I’m terrified about being really open and honest with Stuart (and the, uh, internet) about my body image, because I’ve got this immature notion that talking about feeling overweight will lead to other people seeing me that way. I’m terrified that what seems to work for everyone else will categorically not work for me. I’m terrified to admit that I’m unhappy about something, to suddenly get branded as someone “fixing” something about themselves, rather than the carefree, happy-go-lucky Krissa that other people so often see. Mostly, I’m terrified of my historical lack of strong willpower, that’s lead me into everything from bad-choice relationships to that last bar at 3 AM. I’m terrified of admitting there’s a problem and standing up to fix it.
But when I told Stuart, on a whim on a lazy Sunday morning, that I couldn’t believe I was this afraid of quitting smoking, that I couldn’t believe I’d just said, “maybe I’m not strong enough for this”, well, there was no turning back. Once I’d admitted being that scared, there was nothing to do but try it, but face it, but DEAL with it.
So, here I am, dealing with it. I figure, everything else about life has gotten easier, more manageable, with Stuart at my side. Why not this? I figure, this is the rest of my life I’m looking at. And while it’s a little exhausting to imagine dieting for the rest of my life, it’s just as exhausting to imagine avoiding reflective surfaces and cringing at photographs.
And mostly, I figure spending two and a half months learning how to eat smaller healthier portions seriously beats the ever loving FUCK out of crying in front of the mirror from now into eternity.

Advertisement