Scales were banned in our house.  The only scale I was permitted to use was the one I was weighed backwards on at the  eating disorders unit.  I lived for the days we visited my grandmother’s house where I could weigh myself with impunity on her aging bathroom model.  Given the opportunity, I would weigh myself obsessively; after each exercise, after ingestion of diet soda or a sugar-free popsicle, anything to see that needle go down.  The GNC at the mall had a pay-scale, where for 25 cents, I was convinced I received the most accurate measurement of my weight possible.  In my attempt to thwart the torturers at the hospital of another in-patient treatment, I began attaching heavy tools to my body using duct tape, carefully concealing the evidence under my clothes. This created white patches on my body, areas where my tan was simply ripped off.   This also generated confusion when upon my admission, I weighed considerably less than the bottom limit they had set for me.  I countered administration of supplements with my own strategies; feeding my ensure to the unit houseplants, and sneaking a disposable cup into my room by which to drink cup after cup of water in the early a.m., preparing myself to be weighed.  I would have to leave group halfway through to visit the nurses restroom as we weren’t allowed to use our own for an hour after meals.  Eventually, all of my methods failed and my weight began to creep up.  I discovered a fatal flaw in the unit’s practice of weighing patients backwards; they used a manual scale, which required very different hand movements when measuring a weight over 100 pounds.  The clang of those shifting weights caused me to hyperventilate.  My greatest fear realized…

See “Starving..” for the one word prompt “Tiny” for more of my story.



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