Upon entering my hotel room oasis, my eyes instantly swivelled (well, straight after delighting in the deer) to a set of scales sinisterly skulking beneath a shelf. 

Stand on me Poppy. They coaxed, all-come hither. See how much you weigh now. 

I was in turmoil. I knew I’d lost a little, but what if I jumped on and the scales didn’t reflect a number I was happy with? My last weigh in at the gym which I did on a whim (and wished I hadn’t) had set me at 52.5kg. Not overly ok with the figure (both number and form) but it was an acceptable weight that kept Deb a bit happier and me only slightly stricken. 

Before I knew it I had clambered on, hiking boots and all. That way if a number came up that set me all hysterical, I could justify it with my hiking boots by deeming them a good few kilograms themselves (ridiculous rationale or clever coping mechanism?). 

It displayed back 50.1kg. 

I was in shock. What the fuck?

I took off my boots and took a deep breath. 


I lay down on my bed all dizzy and discordant. I hadn’t been that weight since second year Uni, when I got to my skinniest point. I always held it as the ultimate, optimal Poppy in my mind; the size to get back to, the winning one.
But here I was, back. Even a little below. And it didn’t have the burst of sheer bliss I’d expected. 

Don’t get me wrong. Instantly, I was over the moon when I saw the digits. I went and weighed myself on two other sets of scales to ensure it was spot on. But then I stopped and thought: ED was the one smugly celebrating, popping party streamers on my inside and congratulating me like I’d just graduated with honours. What did Poppy think? 

I’m not going to deceive you; I was fucking stoked. That weight meant my BMI was at 17.8, meaning I’m officially classed as underweight by a good one point. Isn’t this what I always wanted? Haven’t I been holding out for 49? Isn’t this an achievement?

No. It’s not.

Becoming a yoga teacher was an achievement. Conquering Base Camp (if the bloody plane ever gets airborne)  will be an achievement. Even eating a bit of bread bun on the plane yesterday was an achievement (oh yes I did!!!!!). 

Getting down to a weight that is considered unhealthy for my height is not an achievement at all. It’s a failure. It’s not winning. It’s losing. It’s losing to ED. 

I thought of Deb and her fear of me getting below 50. How would she feel on finding out? Was I so selfish that I’d cause my mum worry and upset, just to preen in pleasure at the neon numbers? 

I wished I’d never jumped aboard. I hate weight. I don’t know why I gave into the scales’ seduction. And now there’s a whole new risk of fear; will this now become the set standard for myself? The number that is held as gold, and cannot be surpassed? I’m fucking terrified. I’ve been making UP steps but I may have encountered my first real slippery slope. 

My mind is muddled. I’m crazed with confusion. I’m happy but heartbroken. I’m gleeful but glum. 

It’s a weighing heavilly on my mind. 

(I’m not sharing this to show off and parade around the figures. I’m keeping  this as raw and honest as I can. No doubt I’ll have a freak out in an hour’s time about publishing this post. But in order to be real, I can’t sugarcoat and candy floss and gloss. So it’s all out in the open. Wort(man)s and all). 

One thought on “Feeling: CONFLICTED

  1. Take it one day at a time sweets you can do this there will be the odd hiccup along the way but so long as you get back up and keep going with ultra Pop you will get there lots of love


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s