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Fat (p1)
I've been procrastinating on writing this for the last 3 hours.  I guess if I don't write it, it won't be so real to me?  What a lame excuse.  I have got to stop being so fake to myself.

(Disclaimer: This is going to be a post all about my fat self, emphasis on fat.  If you don't want to hear me whining, just move on now.)

I looked into the eyes of reality this morning. 

For the last couple of months, I've been avoiding the scale.  The avoidance actually started as a challenge to myself, since I am a daily (sometimes twice- and thrice-daily) weigher.  Everyone always talks about weighing in once a week, so that mid-week fluctuations don't get you down.  I've never bought into that; I told myself that mid-week gains spur me to do better and mid-week losses do the same.  Was that the truth?  I honestly can't tell you.  But I wasn't doing well with my diet, and hadn't been for quite awhile, so I decided change might be the answer.  I began to ignore the scale completely and just go off the fit of my clothes and the feelings of my body.

Epic FAIL.  Maybe it was a bad plan, maybe I would have gained the weight no matter what, who knows.  Scale aside, I started eating like there was no tomorrow and that always spells disaster.  The fit of my clothes told me to hunt through my closet for bigger sizes.  The feelings of my body narrowed down to tired, tired, and some more tired.  I ignored all the signs and just kept eating my way through each day.  Avoiding the scale was no longer a challenge; I stayed away from that thing like the plague.

I don't really know why, but something changed this morning.  I decided to get on the scale.  How long it has been is another thing I can't tell you.  Two months?  Three?  I told myself that it wouldn't be as bad as I thought; I should just get on so I could see that I was in the same 245-250 range as I've been for the last several years.  Of course I would be, I always am.  It's not good, but it's what I've been living with for a long time.  I'll see it, accept it, and move on, stop obsessing over the number.  So, I shrugged my shoulders and stepped on.

Holy Mother of God.

Does ... does that say 278.2?  Two hundred eighty pounds?  Are you motherfucking kidding me?  Surely that's wrong.

<step off, reset>


<step off, reset>


<step off, reset>



What the fuck have I done to myself?  WHAT THE FUCK.

Even typing it out here makes me sick to my stomach.  It also makes me want to sob my eyes out.  And go pick a fight with a random stranger, in the hopes that he/she will punch me in the face and break my jaw.

I have never, never seen that number on the scale.  I was obese both times I got pregnant, and never went over 265 at the height of my pregnancies.  I have been 245-250 pounds for so long that I had deluded myself into believing that was my body's natural range.  That I wouldn't get any bigger.  That I would be hovering around that weight for the rest of my life.

You may be rolling your eyes at me, wondering why I am so freaked out.  After all, 250 pounds at my height is morbidly obese.  What does it matter if I'm 30 pounds heavier?  What the fuck is the difference?  Fat is fat, right? 

It's not, though.  Even fat people have prejudice against other fat people.  Mine has always been that "at least I'm not 300 pounds; I mean, Jesus, those people are fat!" and I've comforted myself with that mantra over and over through the years.  300 is where I draw the line.  This morning, I was slapped in the face with a number less than 25 pounds away from that.

Twenty two pounds.  Twenty two measly goddamn pounds away from seeing a 3 as that first number on the scale.

I am terrified of those twenty two pounds.  Utterly terrified, beyond all words.  After all, I've managed to gain thirty pounds in only a few months.  What's going to stop me from going the rest of the way?

Holy shit.

I need to go have a break down.  I'll be back when I can handle this a little better.


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