of [self-inflicted] dietitian drama

"Do you think you could do that?"

I am nodding. My head bobs up and down. Across from me my dietitian is nodding too. We both silently sit there, nodding like idiots as we stare at each other. I can tell she's trying to read me, but the instant I step into her office I turn into an emotionless robot who agrees to everything.

I lie to her a lot.

I try to convince myself that I am not a bad person because I'm lying to be nice. I don't want to hurt her feelings by saying no. I don't want to tell her that she's stupid and her ideas are stupid and her office is stupid and I hate everything about it because that would be mean.

I am a bad person.

So I keep nodding, and she keeps nodding. She keeps making goals, and I keep pretending I met them. I lie without even thinking about it. I lie without even feeling guilty. I lie because that's what I do. I lie.

We've moved past the simple goals. Next week she's going to present me with my meal plan. The meal plan I said I'd try to follow and really have no intention of doing so.

She has really big eyes, and she looks so fucking concerned all the time. I don't know how to be honest with her. Telling her the truth would be like kicking a puppy.

[A puppy you really don't like but is still a puppy and should not be kicked and you are a terrible person for even thinking about  it]

The first thing I do when I enter a room now is look for a scale. If there is a scale, I am instantly defensive and sullen. If there is no scale, I can relax. I am safe. Molly's office is safe. The dietitian's office is THE WORST.

I've gained a little weight. I knew I'd gained some weight. I hate that I've gained some weight. I have grand plans to lose it, but I keep putting food in my mouth.

It always starts the same way. The day begins. I am strong. I am disciplined. I have everything lined out. I have counted every calorie. I have a plan.

Then I make one mistake.

One cookie. A small piece of candy. A chunk of cheese.

This starts a downward spiral. I feel instantly horrible and guilty. I tell myself that I've already ruined everything and I'm going to get fat and ugly and die, so I might as well eat another cookie. Three cookies later, I'm ok with getting a latte. After the latte, I decide I might as well eat dinner. And a snack. I am ok as long as I am chewing something. As soon as I stop, the self-loathing cracks me over the head again. So I eat some more.

When I step off the scale, my dietitian scribbles down the number where I can't see. I put my boots and coat back on and watch as she narrows her eyes at the clipboard. She quickly logs onto her computer and checks something. Then she looks at me with a smug little smile.

For the first time I don't ask her how much I weighed. I don't want to know.