Today, my scale sits in a jar on my bookshelf--broken into hundreds of pieces. Usually I forget it's there. No one ever notices it. But on days when I need encouragement to stay away from unhealthy behaviors, I can turn to it for inspiration. Because every time I look at those bits of twisted and torn plastic, of broken metal and glass and wires, I feel strong. I feel strong because I remember the day I destroyed that scale, and I remember all the other steps I have taken down the road to loving myself.
I've gone over pro/con lists in my head thousands of times when I've wanted to go back to the scale...but what it all comes down to is this: That scale is not making me or anyone else a better person or a happier person. It isn't making the world a better place, and it has so much potential for doing harm. That means it really doesn't deserve to be a part of my life.
I waffled about it for a long time before going through with it, but what eventually made me follow through was telling my family. My parents were immediately supportive--my mom had thrown the family's scale in the trash months before while I was at college and struggling through IOP (intensive outpatient treatment) for my binge eating disorder. It was incredibly emotional--my dad got out his sledgehammer and we took turns hitting it in my parents' driveway, right in front of the house I grew up in. We pounded that sledgehammer into my scale over and over again. Then we took the biggest remaining pieces out back, set them up in a box with some empty milk jugs and fired rifle shots into them. (It was safe- don't worry. My parents live on a large lot in the country, and my father has hunting rifles.) The milk jugs collected many of the tiny bullets that had exploded from the shells we fired, and I saved them.
My mom found a really neat glass jar and gave it to me as a present to hold all the remains: the scale, the bullets, the shells, pieces of cardboard peppered with bullet holes.
I'm not suggesting you should get as extreme as I did. (I'll admit though, it was fun. My dad and I have always enjoyed the occasional father-daughter target practice session, so this was special to us.) But why not take a chance and show yourself that you aren't inextricably tied to your scale? That you're strong enough to destroy it and live your life free of those fickle numbers.
Take it to a parking lot and run over it with your car. Gather some friends and take turns hitting it with a hammer. Use a screwdriver or other tools and physically disassemble it so it no longer works. Throw it out a window (make sure you don't hit someone). Or just drive to a dumpster and toss it in.
Do I miss my scale? Often. Am I tempted to weigh myself when I come across scales elsewhere? Of course. And I've given in on several occasions. But the scale is no longer alive in my house, and I refuse to let it take hold of me again.
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