With tomorrow being the very last day of this one year journey, I have decided that tomorrow will be the day that I smash my scale.
The poll that is up on the website has almost 50 percent of votes saying to smash it, so that’s what will happen.
Throughout my recovery, I have written many letters on this blog. I have written letters to Ed, and I’ve written letters to myself.
And now, I will write a goodbye letter to my scale. I am sorry in advance for it being long, but I just have a lot to say to it.
My letter to Ed was not a goodbye letter, as I don’t think that Ed will ever leave my life forever. However, I can and will and have learned to live above him and to live free of him.
But this letter to my scale, is indeed a goodbye letter, because after tomorrow, when I smash it and then throw it away, it will forever be gone.
I haven’t thought about what I would say yet, so here it goes.
My precious, only trusted, heavy and white scale.
Where do I begin to start to say goodbye to something that over many years, and pretty much my entire life, (except this one year journey) was such a huge part of my life?
Everyday, and many times, every hour, particularly for the past three years, you specifically were my life. There were other scales over the years,but you were the one that Ed and I picked for the worst few years of our time together.
I remember standing on you on my 18th birthday, on my 19th birthday, and on my 20th birthday. I remember standing on you the day I had surgery.
I remember standing on you the day my grandpa passed away.
I remember standing on you on my 21st birthday, and my 22nd birthday too.
This year, for my 23rd birthday, you were not around.
Do you remember the many times that I tried to give you up, and yet I always came back?
One time I gave you up for a week. One time it was for a month. And one time, I was even sure I could do without you because I placed you at someone’ else’s house. Only to find myself speeding over to that house once everyone left for work to go stand on you once again.
Do you remember when your batteries ran out, and I was late to my family dinner, because I had to go to the drug store to buy new batteries for you?
Do you remember the times at 3 a.m. when I would pull you out from under my bed and stand on you when everyone around me was asleep? It was like our own little secret. Just you and me.
Do you remember when I came rushing home from my vacation in Big Bear last year just to run and stand on you to see what bad news you would give me?
I’ m sure you remember everywhere I put you; under the bathroom sink, under the bed, and even in the kitchen one time.
I’m sure you remember the way my feet felt when they stood on you, because I sure remember the cold metal parts of you on my feet too.
I remember the clicking sound you make when I had to turn you on.
That sound will haunt me forever. It was the sound I woke up to every single day, and sometimes in the middle of the night, for years.
And no matter how many other scales I stood on at a doctors office or someone else’s house, you, my dear scale, you were the only one I trusted.
You didn’t even start out as my scale.
You started out as someone else’s scale who I lived with. At first, I only took you out of her closet when everyone was asleep.
And then, you moved with me into my new apartment.
And then you moved with me into a new home.
Somehow, along the way, Ed and I made you ours. We didn’t even care that you once belonged to someone else.
But last January 21 of 2013, I gave you up for good.
For the past year, you have resided somewhere with E (my therapist). I don’t know where, and I really don’t care to be honest.
And I know that E does not care about you either. I gave you to her because her strength is far beyond yours and I knew your presence wouldn’t bother her like it would bother me.
I wonder how you feel now that you haven’t been turned on for an entire year?
Do you feel lifeless? Do you feel dead?
Because that’s how I felt every time I stood on you.
Maybe now you can understand my life with you for those years.
And I might add, dear scale, that tomorrow, I will be smashing you.
But before I smash you, I will make sure to remove your batteries.
You will never be alive again.
I am not sure if you will break completely, but I will be using the heaviest hammer that I can hold and I am going to read you this letter, and then I am going to smash you as hard as I possibly can.
And then I am going to throw you away.
Do you know what I’ve accomplished this year without you, scale?
Do you know that I was the top senior reporter for my university newspaper , even without you telling me what number I weighed during it?
Do you know that my brother called me his hero all because I decided to value myself on who I am, not on you or Ed?
Do you know that without you, I graduated college? I graduated college on a day that I have no idea what I weighed that day.And it was at the best day ever. My Facebook status for it got over 140 likes.
Your weight for me could never get that kind of popularity.
Do you know that my family still loved me this year? Even though I wasn’t the number I always wished you would show me?
Yup, they loved me, supported me and carried me through even without your number.
You used to be my only truth; my only definition of who I was.
But I’ve learned over this past year, that I am not a number.
I am not a size. I am not even a definition of anything.
I am me.
And me is no longer a part of you, and you are no longer a part of me.
And therefore, tomorrow, we will officially part ways.
And I am not only smashing you for me.
I am smashing you for every single person who is part of this journey.
I am smashing you for the other birthdays and days and lives of others your’ve ruined; I am smashing you for every single fighter in the support group ,and I am smashing you for the many people who said this blog saved their lives.
Do you remember when I gave you to E, my only words when she asked me if I had anything to say, were “hello life?”
I remember that.
I’ve found that my soul is my new truth, and your number no longer defines me, dear scale.
And because of that, I officially say goodbye to you.