"Ang taba mo."
After all these months of not hearing the dreaded phrase, I heard it again. Masakit parin pala marinig. I thought I was over it, after losing some of my bulk and getting compliments from everyone who's noticed the change.
But they're part of my new world, so of course, they wouldn't know that.
A part of me wishes they knew what I've been through, even before I met them. Or what I looked like before, and how I've changed now. But I know I'd only be appeasing my bruised ego, but never the deep scar that my weight issues have caused me. The scar that bleeds once in a while, once the touchy subject is brought up. It took me so long to recover from it, twenty-one freakin' years. Until I finally took it upon myself to face the problem, take the leap, and make the change. I've been "dealing with it" long enough, crying myself to sleep, hating those who chide me about it, secretly plotting revenge (yikes hehe).
And I thought I've breached the part where I'm doing this to protect myself from their likes. I thought I was doing this to save myself from my own ghosts, past and present, regardless of what anyone else has to say about it. Now I'm not so sure again. Because realistically, the thin line between hatred and hurt has been my motivation -- now I'm hating and hurting again.
Seven months, 20 pounds lost in the gym. It's not much, and that has become more apparent now. Fifteen more, and maybe then, I'll get to sort out my own issues, after I've cleaned my life of the shit I find myself dealing with. While I wish I could say I don't need to do so because what they say about me doesn't matter and blah-blah-blah, I don't think I'll ever get anywhere near healing the deep scars of my past if I don't.
