At 11:15am today, I will be dragged out of my house, stuffed into my dad’s white Honda, and taken 20 minutes away to complete the most dreaded task imaginable. Seeing my dietitian for a weigh-in.
Now don’t get me wrong, my dietitian is one of the kindest people you would ever meet. She takes time to listen to me and understand my fears when most dietitians could care less. But to be honest with you, it doesn’t matter how big her heart is because either way I will have to step on her stupid scale. Sometimes if I am lucky, the scale will show that I gained some weight. But usually I have either maintained or lost a couple of ounces. This of course throws my parents into a huge panic. They scream at me, yell at me, and watch me like a hawk for days. It’s enough to drive even the most zen-like human being insane!
To make matters worse, the pressure for me to gain weight is quite high. My parents believe I am nothing but a relapsed anorexic, despite me trying so damn hard with my assignments my therapist gave me. I want to get better, but that is difficult to do when my parents expect me to turn into the daughter-of-their-dreams overnight. Sometimes it feels like no matter how hard I try and how much progress I think I’m making, I am still a hopeless case in my parent’s eyes.