I can’t stop eating, and it’s killing me. Literally.
I’ve never not been fat. Never. I was a fat baby, a fat kid, a fat teen, and now a fat adult. And just to clarify, I mean morbidly obese. When I was a kid, I remember my Mom asking my doctor about my weight. He was an old country doctor that told her something like, “She’ll grow out of it.” Nonsense. I wish somebody had been able to help me back then, a lifetime ago. But you know what they say about wishes…
Now, I’m almost 40, weight over 300lbs, and have diabetes. A complete death sentence, likely via metabolic syndrome (which means it could be slow, painful and humiliating process). I actually have nightmares about going blind, or otherwise being disabled and unable to care for myself. What’s so entirely fucked up about this whole thing is I know what’s in store, but still haven’t been able to rewire my brain and stick to a lifestyle modification.
You know the rat in the experiment that eats itself to death? That’s me. Any sign of stress or sadness, or anything really, I’m shoveling food into my mouth. I only recently came to realize it’s turned into a source of comfort. And even though it’s false comfort, it’s the only kind I have so it’s that much harder to let it go, and has resulted in failure after failure. How’s that for masochistic?
From a more vain side, it’s never any fun being the fattest girl in the room, or on the plane, or, well anywhere. I’ve become so used to people treating me poorly that I just expect it now, and I’m always shocked when people are kind and courteous. I seriously cannot remember the last time a guy was interested in me. So on top of being massive, I’m lonely and depressed. Poor social skills, and nonexistent self esteem make it hard to make friends. So I’m totally alone, which makes me more depressed and more likely to eat.
So here I sit, defeated before I even start. Still, I’m embarking on try number 100,000,001, hoping and praying with all my heart that this time will be the one time I don’t fail.