The Day I Shot My Scale

How one young woman reclaimed her power during eating disorder recovery

Nothing says “self-care” like blasting that judgmental scale into smithereens.

Trigger Warning: This post includes topics such as eating disorders, weight (but no numbers are mentioned), and also discusses gun use. If you are sensitive to these topics and think they may set you back in your own recovery, please consult a mental health professional before continuing.

I never fancied myself a gun-tottin’, full-bloodied American. Yet, there I was one afternoon, deciding enough was enough. And realized that I, too, was enough!

Confessions of a Scale Bandit

For most of my life, the scale held a terrifying kind of power. Not because of what it was—a hunk of plastic, metal, and a digital screen—but because of what it represented. It told me who I was allowed to be that day.

Whether I deserved to eat.

Whether I was lovable.

Whether I was "okay" or “enough.”

And even when I knew better—even when I understood, logically, that a number couldn’t measure my worth—I couldn’t stop going back to it. At my lowest, I did something I wasn’t proud of:

I stole a scale from my roommate.

I hid it in my closet, ashamed—not just of the act itself, but because of the reasons I did it. I was an addict. I was addicted to the numbers. To the ritual. To the illusion of control. To the need to know.

My obsession had crossed a line. Multiple times every day, I would sneak into that closet and weigh myself in secret. If the number was down, I felt okay enough. If it was up… Well, let’s not think about that…

A hefty weight to carry

First of all, I’d like to acknowledge that I’m not proud that I stole my college roommate’s scale. To this day, I wonder if she ever noticed it was missing. I hid that scale in my closet for months and that roommate moved out eventually, not knowing that a petty theft had occurred right under her nose.

And, to be fair, I was a victim of theft as well. My mind had been hijacked by anorexia. I was responding out of character, like an addict, needing just one more hit of that bittersweet Scale’s instant judgement.

Tell me I’m good enough? Getting there? Soon? Maybe?… Please?

The scale was a drug dealer of sorts. Originally, a friend had helped me get rid of my own pesky scale, earlier in my recovery journey. But it didn't fully feel like my decision at the time, and so I compensated for that lack of control, in secret, by becoming a criminal.

I told myself, “I had no choice!” I needed to know how I was doing. I had to know that I was making progress…

My mind was still heavily at war against “recovery me”, and “addicted to numbers me”. At this stage in recovery, I logically knew better, but emotionally it was incredibly difficult to trust the process and give up control.

Please, Scale, what do you say?

The Decision

My friends had only recently taught me how to shoot a gun at an outdoor gun range a week prior to the seemingly impulsive decision to destroy my scale. I was a Nervous Nelly! I knew how serious handling a gun was. And I was extra careful to listen to the ins and outs of gun safety and was thankful I had very patient teachers. I felt very at ease.

Looking back, I remember the decision to shoot my scale was made quickly on the spot. It was time. It had BEEN time.

The scale had to go. So, why not go out with a bang?

Many of my best decisions have been ones made in a focused sort of haste. My personal brand of mental illness was rooted in overthinking, and I often got in my own way of progress (and recovery!) by becoming too distracted, overwhelmed, and losing myself because I cared too much about the opinions of others around me.

When I decided to shoot this scale, I was very decisive.

I barely recall the way I felt leading up to the decision. One moment I was noticing the power I was offering a worthless object, and the next I’m amusing my friends with the idea of shooting it into pieces to regain my own sense of self. They were instantly on board, and we hopped in the car. I swear the Indiana Jones theme music was playing somewhere around us as we drove to the gun range.

I was tired of losing my life to numbers. It was time for a new start.

I did it: I shot the scale

It was a sunny day, prime weather for warm thoughts of destruction and rebirth.

I remember hearing the sounds of nature around me. Cicadas, chirping nearby. They pop out of the ground every 7 or 17 years. Was this my chance too? To pop out, reborn?

Although I had shot a smaller handgun the week before, the new shotgun I held in my hands definitely felt different. This was the biggest gun I had ever held in my life! I knew to expect quite the kickback, but that was nothing compared to the emotional kickback I was trying to prepare myself for after this scale was blown apart.

And now it was time…

I lifted the shotgun to eye level. The weight, compared to my frame, felt intimidating. How would I ever hold this steady enough? Am I strong enough?

And the scale… It was sitting up, against a pile of dirt where it belonged– maybe about 50 feet in front of us. My friends stood behind me, one on each side, as if they needed to have my back in case the scale fought back… or if I would run. I felt protected.

So–

BOOM.

First shot fired... Missed. I had anticipated this learning curve. But now that I knew the sensation, I could ground myself and better prepare for the next shot. And somehow, I was now more determined. How DARE I miss! How DARE this scale taunt me. How DARE this scale exist!! How dare I give it any power at all to begin with…

Three shots out of four ain’t half bad

Apparently my rising anger worked to my advantage. The next 3 shots happened in quick succession and each spray of bullets hit the target directly. I watched that scale get gutted before my own eyes. The inside wiring became exposed, bullet holes riddled the plastic throughout, and chunks were taken out of the scale’s body in a satisfyingly aesthetic way.

Had I just created something beautiful out of destruction?

I’m not a violent person. In the past, I was known to aim the majority of my anger or sadness internally, at myself. My eating disorder was proof of this punishment system. I rarely expressed my anger outwardly, let alone on an inanimate object. It felt good. Did this awaken a new passion of mine?

And actually, it kind of did!

Living and loving an expressive life

It has been over fifteen years since I shot that scale. That moment was actually the last time I shot a gun, too. Now, I am recovered, married with two kids, and I have my own studio where I work as an artist, musician, an eating disorder advocate, and as an art therapy practitioner.

My sights are now focused on healing methodologies and living an expressive, genuine life. I had gotten so lost in this beautiful new life, that I had actually forgotten all about the scale I had shot. A few years after that scale met its demise, I considered myself fully recovered from my eating disorder. It was a struggle, but I do believe shooting that scale was a pivotal moment in which I showed my devotion to making a change.

That destroyed scale sat in a bag for years, alongside other treasures and artworks from that time of my life. Combined, they were a time capsule of struggle, my dreams of recovery, and tidbits reminding me of life beyond anorexia.

Seeing that scale’s exposed wires and the chunks of plastic missing from its frame still feels comforting to me. Now, the plastic has started to turn yellow. Its power is now gone– fully erased from my mind, body and soul.

Sharing This Story

When White Pine Center of Healing visited my art studio, I casually mentioned the story of this scale, pulled out the remnants, and was slightly surprised when their response was a deafening “You NEED to tell this story!”

It made me realize, while I have been proud of myself for overcoming my eating disorder, silently, by myself, I had never really noticed the amount of power and courage I had gained in making the decision to shoot that scale. I kept it in a bag for years.

I didn’t display it proudly like other art I intentionally created. So now it sits, shattered on a shelf like a beacon of truth. I was worth more. I AM worth more than that prison. Here I am today, a fully realized woman with a loving family… and I survived. I am a survivor!

Typically I would have been too afraid to share and possibly face judgement, like I was arrogant or attention-seeking. Back in the day, I wasn’t ready to let the truth sink in: I was pretty dang awesome! I did something amazing, in the face of a very dangerous mental illness.

Somehow, some way, I was committed to making a change and believing my life would get better: I would heal. And so, through destruction, I had decided to create a life worth living. Things needed to shed away, die off, be shot into smithereens (I’m looking at you, scale) in order to make way for the new, the BOLD, the beautifully courageous new me.

And now it feels like I all but blinked, and I’m completely transformed. I can’t help but smile now, eternally grateful I somehow made it out alive.

A self-love ritual of sorts

Upon further reflection, I’ve realized that just like many other cultures have rituals, send-offs, and celebrating a new stage of life, so too did I have my own ritual. I marked a new start of my recovery journey, and it started off with a bang.

It wasn't really an act of rage; it was a reclamation. It was a ritual, marking the moment I decided to stop letting an object dictate how much space I was allowed to take up in the world. And the next stage was learning how to let other people's opinions slide off my shoulders.

That moment didn’t "fix" everything, (recovery doesn’t quite work that way) but something changed. Just like that scale, something broke open within me. And in the ‘breaking’, I made space for something new. This wasn’t just about me smashing an object, raging against the machine.

I was smashing a deep-seated belief system.

I was telling shame, secrecy, and fear– NO MORE! This ends now.

It was about me reclaiming the part of myself that had been hiding scales in closets, afraid of being seen, judged.

And now? I feel better. A weight has been lifted. My stomach feels less tight, and I feel more comfortable, and I breathe much easier. Because of my decision to take one right step, I then felt confident to take another right step towards recovery. And each time, my shoulders became lighter, and I could feel my soul was happier. I started to meet the new version of myself I had hoped to meet one day.

Time to celebrate a new life

Although I shot my scale with a shotgun, I’m here to let you know the decision to change does not need to be so obvious. I barely even remembered this moment, and I’m grateful for that.

I like that I made a decision, stuck with it, released the past, and then courageously put one foot in front of the other, until stepping forward started to feel more natural. And I didn’t have time to look back, I was too focused, aiming forward.

Now, I’m glad I had those years I didn’t look back on. The nostalgia feels more like a big sigh of relief. Wow! I’m still here? And words cannot quite describe the freedom I now feel. I made it out,– I did it, guys! And I certainly didn’t do it alone.

All the therapists, advocacy groups, my peers who also were recovering from their eating disorders, my friends and family who were my cheerleaders and my shoulders to cry on…

So, while I’m tempted to say “I did it guys!” truly, it was a community effort.

We did it, guys!!!