I’m wearing my armor again.  Armor that lets me hide from the world.  Armor that keeps me from getting attention.  Armor that let’s me not care.

I’ve always been a “big” person … 6′ tall with a size 10 foot (before most stores even carried a size 10) since I was in the 8th grade.  Middle school dances were living hell.  The ONLY boy tall enough for me to dance with evidently like me a lot more than I liked him and told everyone we were “dating” after one dance.  I was awkward and slouched to try to fit in.  My posture still sucks because of it.  I didn’t play sports, never had the desire to and was told more than once that I was “wasting the gift of height”. Who the fuck says that to a 12 year old?

In high school I dated a real gem who was probably a good hundred pounds overweight, yet he insisted on calling me fat every day and literally knocked food out of my hands when I tried to eat around him.  Oh yes … what a winner!  Plus he beat me and belittled me like he was breathing.  Gosh … why did I ever let that one go?  So my Senior year of high school I weighed 140 pounds, which is not a good look for a tall girl.  You could count my ribs, all of them, through my skin.  My collar bones could be seen through my shirts.  My hair fell out in chunks and I stopped having periods.

After marrying D, I gained back to a normal weight, but was still much bigger than my friends.

After we had kids and I started taking Paxil, the weight increased more and more and more.

At my heaviest, during my “fuck the world and hand me that bag of chips BITCH!” Paxilated years, I weighed 233 pounds.

I lost a little of it during the months of withdrawal (and weekends in jail * see My Story at the top if you aren’t caught up).

Then a few years ago, I got serious and joined Weight Watchers and lost down to 163 pounds … a SEVENTY pound loss from my heaviest.  I could fit into a size 10.  People commented on how great I looked … until they didn’t and they started telling me to stop and that I looked sick.  D was concerned.  It was almost like a drug.  I had the power over this one thing and my addiction was the dropping number on the scale.  I scared myself, but didn’t know how to stop.

We went on vacation to Las Vegas and I reluctantly agreed to eat whatever I wanted with D’s encouragement.  Yes, I needed to gain back some poundage.  I did not need to gain back this much.

I kept eating and over the past year I’ve gained 30-35 pounds.  I can feel it on me.  My clothes don’t fit.  Pantyhose make it nearly impossible to breathe.  My ass is HUUUUUUGE!!!  The problem is that I can’t make myself care and I don’t know how to make myself care.  I care because I can feel the pounds on me, but I don’t care enough to change.

I’m so used to being considered big that it’s easier for me to be this way.

I feel comfortably uncomfortable.  Being chunky feels right to me, even though I know it isn’t.

When I get serious about losing weight, my brain goes into overdrive and I lose too much.  When I don’t care and I eat whatever I want, my brain goes into overdrive in the opposite direction and I gain too much.

How do I shed the armor of my pudge and find something in the middle I can live with?

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