Sciamachy

sciamachy
[sahy-am-uh-kee]
1. an act or instance of fighting a shadow or an imaginary enemy.


This morning, on a whim, I decided to try on a pair of size ten jeans that had been given to me by a friend.

I figured I could entertain the dogs at least with my attempt to get them on.

I now sit at work, wearing said jeans, which fit quite nicely.

And a size large sweater.

A year ago, I claimed I was a size twenty.

And squeezed into XXL tops.

I was thrilled when I buttoned the jeans and realized I could still breathe. I tried sitting down, to make sure they wouldn't dig into my flesh uncomfortably. I did many experiments to make sure that I actually was able to comfortably wear a size ten.

I reasoned that this brand of jeans must run big. That there was a lot of stretch to them. That there was a unknown factor at play into the fact that I was able to wear them.

It surely wasn't because I'm down almost 100 pounds by now. I don't see that big of a change in the mirror, so it couldn't be because I had lost enough weight to be in a ten.

Then I looked at my butt in the size ten jeans, got giddy over how good it looked and decided to announce on Facebook that I was a ten.

After I hit post on my status which proclaims "I am a ten", I started to get likes.

And then, of course, because it's me and my brain never stops churning out random thoughts, I started debating about what my status must mean to the people reading it.

Were the likes I was getting because I was boasting that I am a ten, meaning that I find myself to be a top grade woman?

Was it because people were happy I wasn't tearing myself down for a change?

Had they figured out what the vagueness of my status meant?

On the way to work, I started thinking I needed to delete the status, because it was too boastful. That I wasn't being humble. That I had become someone who needs to post incessantly about her weight loss on social media.

I started thinking about what people must be thinking about me, boasting "I'm a 10". I felt uncomfortable in the jeans, that I was showing off too much. I debated turning around to go home to change into a different pair of jeans. I was afraid that my co-workers would comment on my appearance. That I'd get looks from the men in the library who cause me to wear a fake wedding band in order to deter them from hitting on me.

I was worried that someone would look at me and think I looked like a sausage coming out of its casing.

I was worried that regular patron would comment on my weight loss and cause my co-worker to start bragging about her own, trying to goad me into sharing the secrets of mine with her.

I thought about how at a work lunch the other day, I felt once more like a circus exhibit as I was questioned about why I only ate a third of my entree. A newer co-worker, who had heard from others in her department that I had lost a bit of weight in the past months, grilled me on how I was doing it. I heard another co-worker, who has not been as friendly to me as the pounds have come off bragging about her own weight loss, mentioning just how much she's lost. I felt her eyes on me as I nibbled at my food. I felt judged.

And the feeling of being judged was with me this morning, as I left the house in jeans that fit, but just happened to be a smaller size than I had been wearing.

And I walked into work and it's just been like any other day. Since I don't have the number 10 stamped on my ass, no one but me knows what size I have on. No one even knows what size jeans I wore the other day.

And I realized that my biggest enemy in my battle against my addiction, my battle to love myself, my battle to be healthy, is me.

I spend too much time worrying about what others think when I decide to be proud of my accomplishments or dress in clothes that fit properly. Or when I eat in front of others. Shoot, just when I walk in a room of strangers. Or even certain groups of friends. I spend so much time in my own head battling these enemies I am convinced I have, when the enemy is me.

I worry that I will never stop my sciamachy.

Because the heart of the matter is I am my biggest critic. And my harshest judge. It is megalomaniacal of me to assume that others are so concerned with my appearance and with what I put in my mouth.

It bothers me that I couldn't just enjoy the moment of fitting into these jeans.

I know that I don't see myself the way others see me, because I've been told repeatedly over the course of my life that I have no idea how beautiful I am. And I fight my invisible enemy in my head to keep from telling the people who tell me that that they're insane.

I have started to think of myself more kindly. Not just because I've lost the equivalent of 18 5 pound bags of sugar.

And some days, I do look at myself in the mirror and think that I'm not too shabby to look at.

I also think that my love of myself is changing because I know how much God loves me. God gave us his only son to die for us because of how much he loves us.

Thinking of that sacrifice, how could I not love myself, even just a little bit?

God sees me as his beautiful creation, fearfully and wonderfully made. Who am I to question Him?

So, I sit here, in my size ten jeans, and I feel proud, as being able to wear these jeans shows me just how far I have come in my recovery.

And in the words of Sue Monk Kidd, "We have to acknowledge at times that this moment is enough. This place is enough. I am enough."

I am lovable. I am likable. And I am flawed. But most importantly, I am so loved by God that I need to stop battling myself and accept His love without questioning it.

I am enough.