September 10, 2017.
That was the day I told my ex-husband our sixteen year marriage was over.
One year later, this is the number on my scale. But it’s just a number.
I’d gained weight in Edmonton, and I had a closet full of television clothes. When I unceremoniously returned to Manitoba, I’d inch into them, fearing I’d bust the zipper. Or not bother because I couldn’t hoist my pants passed my hips.
Now? I’ve lost over 20 lbs. Those clothes either fit or they’re too loose. I’ve lost almost four inches from my hips. One and a half on my waist. I have noticeable tone. I didn’t starve myself. I’m just eat healthier. Boring, but healthier.
A former co-worker of my ex-husband’s told him, “No offence, but she looks better without you.” And that was a mega compliment. From a young age, I’ve been self-conscious about my appearance and weight. It’s inn my nature.
Even on August 2nd, when I was released from my job as a marketing manager, it didn’t impact my self-esteem. But after the August long weekend, my happiness vibe wore off.
Because here’s the painful truth:
A number on a scale? Lower numbers on a measuring tape? They can’t protect you when someone destroys your self-esteem and confidence. Especially when you’re in a state of rebuilding.
In six weeks, all the self-esteem and confidence I gained disappeared in a flash. I started to question was I thin enough? Pretty enough? Smart enough? Sexy enough? Toned enough? Was I thin, pretty, smart, sexy and toned at all? Was I fooling myself?
Today is also 27 years since my first seizure – which led to a brain tumour diagnosis, followed by another diagnosis two years later. Emotions flooded back.
Two brain tumours. Countless seizures. The second time, I survived when the odds were against me. After the surgery, I couldn’t remember the date or my name. At the time, I was miserable and ungrateful to be alive.
I am alive though. I am a survivor. I battled aphasia. I drew a circle when my neurosurgeon asked for a square. I did and said things I’m not proud of, but we all have regrets.
Eventually, I bounced back like a 10-year-old in a bouncy castle. And these six weeks? They’ll turn into seven. Then eight, nine, and so forth. With time, like my second scar, it’ll be another painful memory. My self-esteem and confidence will return.
I shouldn’t base my self-worth, self-esteem, or confidence on a scale showing 150 lbs, 129 lbs, or higher or lower.
Because I am enough.
I was always enough.