July 2015

Four years. One month. Eleven days. Post injury. Post going back to work, changing jobs a few times and still feeling uncontrolled anxiety at the thought of gaining weight. Still inexplicable anger at the thought of not being able to lose weight. It took two years to get back on the bike and two more to finally hit that 20 mile mark.

The ankle still hurts every now and again, stiff cramping pain to remind me that I once was and still am broken. Am I destined to feel awful for always?

People of the void; if you had my body and my life would you be able to love it better? I hate everything about myself from the physical to the the emotional. From the acne to the weight to the injury that lingers to the job I hate.

Rage.

I don’t want to tell this story to anyone that I know, in person, because it will be met with eye rolls and questions about the truthfulness of my story. I don’t have the energy for that. So, I’ll write it into the void.

I’ve always been overweight. I recall when I was in sixth grade being 5’4, 150. I’m now . obese. I’ve never not been at least a little overweight. Today a lady congratulated me for choosing lentil soup. She said it looked like I needed to start making healthy choices. Look, I get it. I’m fat. Does that give a , stranger the righty to police my food choices? I shouldn’t have to justify why I should be allowed to eat as a fat person, not whatever I want, I mean eating in general. Truth be told I hate being fat so much so that I fanticize about cutting it off. I walk on my lunch break, do squats and jumping jacks at work whenever I have to pee. This is on top of 2-3 hours of kick boxing a week, 30+ miles of cycling, various gym sessions and other walks. I make the conscious decision to work out at least 10 hours a week and I have nothing to show for it. Nothing. I’m still fat. I don’t understand why. It is eating me alive.