As I get ready for bed tonight, I catch a glimpse of myself in my full length mirror on my ikea wardrobe. I turn away.

I try not to ponder on what I just saw.

I try not to get on the scales.

I try to eat more salad.

I try not to wear the clothes that have become a bit tight.

But then again, I don’t throw them away either.

They remain in my wardrobe (the one with the mirror) as a glimmer of hope or as a painful reminder of what I used to be.

They also serve as my self punishment. As my shame.

I’ve put on weight this last year.

I know I’m not fat.

That’s what makes this such a crazy thing to acknowledge and write down.

I know that when I pop into a clothes shop I don’t go to the plus size section.

I hear my friends when they describe me as looking ‘healthy’.

I try to understand when they say that I was too skinny before, that I was like that because I was sad.

I wish each time that I look in the mirror to be that skinny again.

I’m aware that I’m getting to an age where the metabolism slows down and losing weight becomes harder, gaining weight becomes easier.

After my second baby there was this half stone that I couldn’t shift. That people said suited me. I scrutinised it.

The silver lining of my divorce was what I have dubbed ‘the divorce diet’. The easiest way to lose weight ever invented. I wouldn’t recommend it.

I didn’t even notice that half stone drop off. I didn’t try at all. I guess if you don’t die from a broken heart, something else has to go. It takes energy and resources to mend it.

Having said that, even as a teenager, I went to great lengths to stay skinny. I skipped breakfast. I didn’t eat lunch at school from the ages of 11-16. I’d snack on sugary food to keep my energy up. I invented ‘the chocolate diet’ ( for more info pm me 😂). I always compared my self to everyone else.

I had brothers who took the piss out of my appearance constantly. I had braces and didn’t allow myself to smile for 18 months. I tried to be cool. I tried to look like the other girls (I even had a moussed up perm at 14 🤦🏼‍♀️🤦🏼‍♀️🤦🏼‍♀️). When this didn’t work I could make myself feel better by reminding myself that at least I liked decent music and I was slim. Those were the two things I had.

I bought teen magazines that told me I should be a size 6 with Katie price boobs and perfect teeth. That if I wanted to get myself a boyfriend I should wear a short skirt and the free lipstick they kindly put in the cellophane the magazine had come wrapped in.

Let me tell you, that lipstick did not suddenly turn me from scrawny to sexy. From feeble to fit.

I don’t buy magazines now.

I have social media instead.

I have my Facebook newsfeed full of pictures of perfect families.

I have instagram with women posting perfect selfies in their pants.

I felt inferior as a child in many ways and I still do now.

I want to hide.

I want to run away before anyone else runs from me.

I’ve worked in mental health in the past. I know the tricks. I know how to laugh it off. To plaster a smile on it. I know how to hide what I do. It’s really hard to explain how I feel when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’ve spent money on diet pills. Pills to suppress hunger. Pills to stop sugar cravings. They’re all bollocks.

I try to CBT myself. I KNOW IM NOT FAT!!! I know many women would be happy to have my body. I know I’m lucky to have a body that functions. That carried babies. That allows me to work.

So why am I so disappointed?

I think all women are one way or another.

I heard a quote once which I remind myself of often:

We compare the worst of ourselves with the best of others.

That’s what us girls do.

We need to stop.