You feel it in the way you move. Slow. Sluggish. Every step you take is difficult, like you’re walking with weights attached to your shoes.
You feel it in the way you breathe. Shallow. Laboured. Each breath is difficult, like you’ve been climbing stairs for 100 years and you just don’t have any oxygen left.
You feel it in the way you hold yourself. Bloated. Hunched. Being in your own skin is difficult. It’s too tight. It’s too heavy. It’s suffocating you. It’s electric, filled with static.
Clothes are too tight. Clothes are too loose. Clothes feel like shards of glass against your skin.
You think if you stood on a scale right now, that you’d see a number twice as large as the one normally there. You’re weighted down. Heavy. One million tons. You have to be, moving is so difficult. You have the weight of the world on your back.
When everything gets so overwhelming that you can’t breath, or think, or move.
The weight of it all is too much. It paralyses you. You’re stuck. You feel it all around. The weight is on your chest, your head, sometimes your stomach, your feet, your legs. You can’t move without the effort of a hundred horses pulling you forward.
So you stop. You stay still. You try to deepen your breaths and clear your mind. Sometimes you hide. You avoid. You distract.
You want to step on that scale and not see the added weight of your sadness, worries, and anxiety. You’ll lose it little by little. Slowly. But meanwhile, you feel like you outweigh the largest elephant, the biggest whale. And carrying that around is exhausting.
I don’t care too much about physical weight gain. I’m not one who obsesses about every little pound up or down. It’s the mental weight gain that plagues me. Time and time again. And I can’t escape it.