In a particularly masochist mood this morning I decided to waddle onto the scales. The result was 106kilos (I'm 5'4 go figure), my reaction probably shouldn't have been "meh" followed by "oooh I'm almost at my heaviest I've ever been (108kilos) that sounds like a challenge!".
And yes before I get lectured I know that the reason I sleep all the time is because I'm carrying so much flab around. Yes I know I can't wear pretty clothes because I'll burst them, but it's amazing how quickly you come to love your M&S elasticated trousers. It's amazing how quickly clothes you used to love get pushed to the back of the wardrobe with a shrug.
I'm exactly the story that would make the weight-loss companies shudder. Both times I have been thin (size 8 because I wasn't eating) and size 12 from being on my feet all day in the library (best job ever!) I wasn't happy. Sure I looked good in a pair of skinny jeans but that didn't make up for the fact I was suffering from severe depression the first time round and crippling anxiety the second. So no I don't really care. It's almost satisfying that I'm as ugly on the outside as I feel on the inside. Self-disgust is nothing that can't be cured by reaching for the nearest packet of Twirl Bites.
And no I don't wish to join a gym or go running (thank you psychiatrist) to make myself feel better, tried exercise and it didn't make me any less miserable whatsoever. So you can stick that theory with your running shoes where the sun don't shine.
And of course I am guilted into the realisation that I am a massive drain on the NHS just by being alive but I don't really use the' service' aside from my meds and not-even-free NHS dentist appointments twice a year. And yes I do avoid the GP so as not to further over-stretch NHS funds.
I could lie and say that I'm being Punk rock by being fat, rejecting society's values that thin = happy and successful but really I just don't give a damn.
Bring on being too fat to leave the house!
Love Jen
XxxX
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