Last year at this time, I weighed about 129 pounds. Usual pound or two plus or minus over the average week. I am 4'11", mind, so that is a bit on the chubby side for my frame, but I was fine with it. It was a good, stable weight that I'd been at for a while, ever since going off the last med that had a weight-gain side effect.
After Judah, I dropped fourteen pounds in a hurry, with the concomitant hair loss, et cetera. Stress nausea is a bitch. I worked at trying to keep from losing more, and was eventually able to put a few pounds back on; it looked like my new normal was about 118. Which was fine. I was happy there. Still had my familiar curves. Got bras that fit. I stayed there til January.
And when that all went down? Another ten pounds down, fast, which should tell you how awful it really was. (I have never had weight loss from a normal breakup, not even the rare nonmutual ones.) Stabilized a little bit, then dropped again as the badness continued.
So today I am 105.
105 is a different world. My compactness is so strange to me. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror at PT, doing an arm and core exercise where my body was diagonal to the floor, and I was shocked at how little of me there was. No more comforting little mamabelly; my stomach is flat like it's been photoshopped.
I guess that's part of the unreality of it. I look like the "after" of a photoshopped picture. Hipbones visible, thighs slimmed down unrealistically, no belly.
I looked like me at 129. I got accustomed to 118. But this miniature pared-down version of me feels so alien.
I don't really have a pithy ending for this. I'm going to go eat some nachos.