When I went to visit my younger sisters in San Francisco more than a week ago, I weighed myself the first day I arrived there. The bathroom had a scale in it, and I had not prepared myself for avoiding it. I definitely did not like number that I saw.
Just a few days before my visit with my sisters, my nutritionist was concerned that I had lost a little weight since I had last seen her. When I saw that number on the scale in San Francisco, I was indignant; there was no way I had lost weight recently. That number was too big, and I immediately became scared that I would default into restricting.
But, somehow, I managed to pull myself together and stick to my meal plan, probably from a mix of enjoying spending time with my sisters and the food in San Francisco being so delicious. Not only did I stick to my meal plan, I finally started looking forward to and enjoying eating.
Last week, I had an appointment with my psychiatrist and I admitted that I had committed the taboo act of weighing myself. Surprisingly, she was not disappointed. Instead, she focused on how I managed to enjoy meals in San Francisco, saying that enjoying meals again is good for my prognosis of staying in remission. I am grateful that I was able to be open and honest with my psychiatrist, instead of trying to be the perfect patient, and that she still was encouraging about my progress in recovery. On top of that, she said that my next appointment does not need to be for another two months (which is significantly less frequent than the once a week it used to be). Finally, I am grateful that weighing myself does not mean I have spiraled down into relapse. My psychiatrist’s reaction to my progress, even when I admitted that I had weighed myself, made it easier for me to ignore the scales when I went to the gym over the weekend.