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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