Why I am breaking up with the scale

So, I'm this relationship. Like any relationship, we have our good days and our bad. When it's good, I feel like I am on top of the world. When it's bad, I usually end up finding a dark corner to cry in. Come to think of it, this relationship isn't just bad, it's emotionally abusive. It's manipulative, mutating my thoughts to inflict pain, lower any value I attritbute to myself. We have been together so long that I have become dependent on it; I wouldn't know myself without it. But, thanks to the love and support from those closest to me, I have finally found the courage to do what I need to do: I am breaking up with the scale.

The scale and I go way back. My first memory of stepping on the scale to induldge my curiosity was around the age of six. I didn't understand what the numbers meant, thinking that the higher the number the better! It meant I was growing! It was always fun to jump on Mom's scale and watch the numbered dial swing around, the little red hand shaking. Fast forward seven years -during those awkward, yet formative times- when I was a little more plump and you would see a young woman who is taking the first steps to hating herself. I may have just had my braces taken off, but at thirteen I didn't feel like any beauty-queen. My mom was on Weight Watchers and she started teaching me about the plan. I learned the point system, kept a food journal, and watched what I ate. I, also, tracked my weight. I felt chubby and different, and the scale affirmed those feelings. I remember weighing myself as soon as I got up, then after my morning pee, and then at night. The night time weigh ins would frustrate me: how could I gain 3 pounds in a day? The scale betrayed me! The next morning, though, the scale was there for me. It comforted me by showing the weight I was the morning before. Sometimes, it even showed me a few pounds less! I loved it! I felt successful! People noticed a change! The scale was my friend in my journey to success.

Fast forward, again, ten years later, and I am pregnant with my first child. Every month I get weighed in by the doctors. I dread those check-ups: do I really need to hear that I am up another two pounds?! Come on! I already know I look like a beached whale, do we really need to add insult to injury? That last weigh in, at 188lbs nearly felt like a shot to the chest. How was I ever going to get back down? How was my husband ever going to love me (as if he loved me simply because of a number on the scale)? I would hear many women say they loved being pregnant; that it was one of the best times of their lives. I hated being pregnant. It changed my body and my hormones, and I had never felt more unattractive. I hated that damn scale for reminding me.

After Boo was born, I worked hard to get my weight off. I watched everything I ate on my 1200 calorie diet. I ran every day, sometimes twice, and did tabata exercises during nap time. I didn't have a scale at the time, so I wasn't watching the numbers, but I loved the way I felt. I watched the pant sizes go down. I loved myself. But whenever I saw my old frenemy, the scale, I couldn't help myself! On I would step, and it would decide whether I had a great day or a terrible week spent in self hate. The pain was familiar, welcomed, as I knew it would fuel the fire in me to train harder. I had grown dependent, even in its absence.

Two years later, and I have had another child: Moose. He is just as perfect as his sister, but 4 weeks post partum and I am bound and determined to get back down to my pre-pregnancy weight. I've set a goal to push myself: a bikini competition. I work tirelessly to achieve my dream. I track all my food, never miss a weigh in, and do extra minutes of cardio than my program tells me to. I make it to stage night, standing in the wings waiting to go on stage. I see myself as a "big girl," and am terrified of being seen next to these tiny women. I worry my stomach is too big; that I didn't lose enough weight; that my glass of wine the night before was a mistake. Then, I don't place. I am shattered, and feel like it was all for naught.

The next few months are a whirlwind. My stomach bloats at the sign of anything with sugar, dairy, or gluten. I spend more evenings crying about my weight than I do enjoying the summer and my family. Boo asks Daddy why Mommy is always sad. Not only is the scale telling me I am a whale, but now I am a bad Mom. A friend suggests anti-depressants. And yet, I still go back to the scale.

It's now 2016. I am staring down the last few months of my early twenties and wondering: why the fuck does it even matter? Yesterday, I cried in the pantry because two scales gave me two different weights. Yesterday, while my husband held me and hugged me, he asked me to finally break up with the scale. Can I do that? Is that possible? But, I want to compete! I've heard of others doing it, but can I? Well...screw it! Let's give it a shot!

So here I am, setting plan. I will be measuring my success only by progress photos and inches. If I make it on stage, I make it. If I don't, then hopefully I have at least been able to break free from my dependency on an inanimate object. Why? Because, in the end, I made a promise to the man that has stood by me through more than a man should have to. He has stood by me, and continued to love me unconditionally when I have been at the very darkest times in my life. Because of Moose and Boo: I would never want them to think that the only measure of their value is the number on a scale. And, because I am tired. I am tired of the emotional rollercoaster. I am tired of crying. And I am so tired of being a number.

Hit the road, Scale. It's so over.