So. Uh. Yeah. I’ve gotten pretty large and in charge.

I was pretty much in a state of denial about it, even though were less and less clothes in my wardrobe I could wear. I’ve refused to buy larger clothes, so I have been wearing any stretchy-type clothing in my wardrobe in heavy rotation.

On New Year’s eve night, at my SIL’s house, while everyone slept. I weighed myself. I had not done so in probably a year.

And then I sat down on the bathroom floor, and I cried.

I cried because I’ve done this whole weight loss thing over and over. I cried because I don’t want to do it again. I cried because I hate that some people don’t have to work at it, because I do.  I don’t eat secretly in the drive-thru like folks you see on TV and I’m fairly active. I just have to watch every damned bite I take. I always have– well, ever since I stopped dancing six days a week.

I cried because no one has made a one point ice cream. (And I probably also cried because I had been sick for like two weeks and I hadn’t really had any sleep.)

I cried because I was so stupid, so careless, so lazy with my health. I cried because both breast cancer and diabetes run in my family, health conditions exacerbated by obesity. I cried because the word “obese” now applies to me.

I cried because I equate the shape of my body to my worth. I know that’s not right. I know that in my brain, but… old habits die hard. I saw those numbers, and I saw that I was a worthless pile of crap.

On the bathroom floor, I spent a good ten minutes hating myself, for all of that. Some of it within my control, other parts of it not so much.  The self talk was ugly: How could I let this happen, AGAIN?  What is my fucking problem?! ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL YOURSELF IN FRONT OF YOUR CHILDREN?!??!

I sat there, hating myself with the knowledge that I weighed the same weight as when I went in for my c-section with Squeak.

Then I got up off the floor.

That hurt, because the reason I was even there– the reason I weighed myself at long last AT ALL— was that the pain in my right knee had become pretty much unbearable. Though I have had a knee injury pretty much since I broke my kneecap in the fifth grade, I know that the heavier I get, the worse it is.

I went to bed resolved.

No more hating myself. The past is the past. There is no point in going back, I don’t live there anymore.

I started back on WW the next day. I have lost 5 pounds.

I try not to think about how far I have to go. I try to remember that this is not a race. I’m trying to do this in the right way, so I don’t have to do it again.

I have fifty more pounds to lose.

I can’t believe I just typed that. But if you’ve been around here a while (and some of you have, God love ya) you know that I deal in truth. And pretending like this wasn’t my reality wasn’t helping me at all. And if you know me, I’m not really telling you anything you didn’t know– Facebook pictures don’t lie.

So here we go.

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