I weighed myself this morning. I expected to come in at around 168lbs. To my surprise, I am at 157lbs. (The magic of FYP stress, norovirus, and two breakups in a very short period of time. Plus some running. Only a little bit though.) The point of telling you this, dear readers, is this:
There was a time in my life when being 11lbs lighter than I expected to be would have made my day, would have been my focus, would have made all the other bullshit in my life disappear in a puff of ill-defined weight loss logic.
Today, in spite of magical weight loss, I am still sad. I am still as sad as I was yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. I am still the person who needs my friend to send me a snap chat telling me to get up to get up. 11lbs lighter than expected is not making anything go away.
September to now went sort of like this. Processing nursing (it is much harder than I thought.) Processing what I want to do when I graduate (the options are many and varied). Processing two breakups (and distressing myself by trying to figure out how I could have saved either of those relationships). Processing being off campus until next September (I miss my people). Processing my inability to be financially sensible (I am actually a mess who spends all my money on coffee). Processing being on the waiting list for the Rape Crisis Centre. Processing my best friend living in a different city. Processing this new found difficulty to pray everyday. Processing moving continents this summer.
It’s a lot. My head is like a room full of post it notes that I cannot even begin to organise.