Am I sick of this body yet?

I’m not sure how long I’ve been at the 400-pound mark, I could find out if I got off my lazy behind and retrieved my weight loss diary of sorts from the drawer in the bathroom next to the scale, but sitting around has helped lead me to this super sized self. It has been a very difficult journey to put on and maintain this much weight over such a long period of time.

I mean, give me some credit. It takes a lot of thought and effort to avoid the gym, avoid walking as much as possible, lie to everyone around me that “I’m trying to lose weight” or that “I’m working on it (it being loosing weight)”, to not eat healthy, etc.

I’ve had to revise my excuses over and over again because I’ve failed miserably at losing and keeping the weight off and would like a pity party thrown in my honor each and every day. Thank the Lord I do not have a family because I know I would be bed bound by now. I know how to manipulate those around me to get them to do my bidding. So I know I could get my family to buy into the lie of bringing me whatever unhealthy thing I want to eat. I know I could finish a whole pizza in one sitting, but having to go get yet another slice in the kitchen is a chore. I need someone to wait on me, someone to wipe my butt when I become so large that I can no longer reach important parts of my body for cleaning, I need a man to love me for me so I can then have someone to “party” with–someone who will support my insanity and addiction to food by taking me out to dinner–I don’t care where as long as it is loaded with calories so I can pack on even more weight. (Yeah, I know, that is insane, but this disease doesn’t make sense.) All I need is one person to help make me comfortable in my skin so that I can grow to the size I really want to be, to the size I seem to be aiming for, to the size where I have to be cut out of my home. My choices of late seem to be headed toward this. This disease does not make sense and neither do I when I am enveloped in it.



There is no reasoning with this disease. It is a killer. I find comfort in my killer and false acceptance and dysfunctional hope masquerading as love. I am infatuated with food and it is killing me silently one spoonful, one fork full at a time. My body and joints ache, crying out for me to stop, but I do not. I press on into the food. Surely this time it will be different, surely this time it will save me from my emotions, from my self loathing, from this pain it has caused. Surely….Oh, if only it would.