Feats of Strength

I am still not convinced it was the best decision:  it did not serve to placate my disordered temper, but it did open a new window of opportunity, should I genuinely pursue a pleasing physiognomy and capable, fetching figure.  It also demonstrated a level of fortitude that some have denied I possess.  But those are the people who say I will die.

Generally, my constitution is quite firm when locked upon a given path, if it familiar enough, and after stepping from the scale this morning I issued the reflex command that my weight would not qualify me to eat lunch.  I was still satiated from a late, liberal allowance of food the previous evening, and this was reflected in my swollen abdomen and the accompanying digital display, under my feet, in pounds measured to the ounce.  And yet, I couldn't stop thinking of pictures I happened upon in an album of mine, sourced to the May after my graduation from college, now a full seven years back.  That spring also marked another special commencement -- my release from a program for eating disorders, the last instance that saw me participating in a hospital clinic directed specifically at servants of anorexia and other associated afflictions.  (The only supervised meal setting I have worked with since that period was a locked unit for addiction recovery and psychiatric counsel, to which I volunteered two weeks in 2011 for the purpose of incorporating lunch into my routine.  As ridiculous as it may sound, I indeed required assistance in overcoming my acute anxiety and long-embedded bodily rhythms when resolved to "relearn" an intake schedule involving more than a single nightly binge.)  The images of me from 2006 are unfortunately few, but at NYU we were given disposable 35 mm cameras with film that, when developed, displayed stamped messages celebrating our accomplishment, in garish school colors and distracting borders.  I naturally used the gift, and two photos of me from Mother's Day of that year bear the NYU torch emblem, purple and blue, in awkward juxtaposition with scenes from a locally-sourced restaurant where our family dined for the holiday.  I wear white geranium flowers behind my right ear, with hair in a delicate chignon.  My face, in complexion and shape, is fresh and healthy, balanced well by bold snowberry eyes and the signature pout of my lower lip, cherry-stained.  It was this desirable depiction of myself that was summoned as I rallied a distant appetite, proceeding to consume the afternoon provisions I had earlier sworn-off.  Shortly afterwards, in dazed disbelief, it felt like I had lifted a car.  My emotional condition remains a patchwork of clashing signals, toggling between astonishment, pride, resentment, shame, dread, hope, despair, bewilderment; then stunned, stolid languor and neutrality.  For now, that is for my head to sort out.  My logical conscience made the choice to give this body an influx of calories when the rest of my being screamed in objection.  I had brainstormed ways of avoiding lunch, from visiting the cineplex for a matinee blockbuster to volunteering at my grandmother's business a few towns over.  Neither route would see me returning to how I looked in those glossy stills from 2006.  Thus, I took the unexpected approach, leaving myself uncomfortable, but also with the brewing awareness that beauty, like honor, is not easily won.