I took before pictures. You know, the ones with my belly sagging over my pants—from the side, from the front, from the back. I made sure you could see my back rolls. I made sure my expression was neutral. Blah. These pictures make my stomach turn. I mean my muffin top. They are proof of my before.
The problem is, right now I am still in the before. The pictures make my stomach turn only because my mirror confirms them. They are me, now. They are not at all before. They are me, now, in all my shame, discomfort, and self-loathing. They are me looking longingly at a cannoli, or a piece of pie, or a mouthful of rice for God’s sake.
I took them so I could post them together with pictures of the real me. The one who is slim and fit and pleased with herself. The after. It is so not after right now.
I could never post the before pictures before they become the before. They are hiding on my phone—oh, but what if someone scrolls through my photos I must never let anyone scroll through my photos. Even I cringe when I pass them at random occasions in search of a photo of my cute baby, on whom a forearm roll is perfection.
I am on the way to after, but still in the before. The before when I am cutting the carbs and eating more vegetables and trying to exercise, etc. I have never been this fat. I weighed this much at the height of my first pregnancy. I didn’t even want to type that. And then I almost deleted it when I edited. I don’t want anyone to know. Not even me. Especially not me.
I may never even post this. (I also added that during the edit. If only I could delete my belly.)
love, JAMEY