So tired.

Me

Do I really want to lose this weight? Do I really want to be healthy; do the work it takes to be healthy? I'm been hemming and hawing, coming up with some striking insight, learning about my triggers, my fragile self image.  And I've been sharing it, here, online, for the world to see.

But, that is only an illusion of transparency.  I share what I want.  I reveal what is safe.  I write words that offer a shell of understanding.  Do I really believe whatever the hell it is I am saying?

Here's where I stand right now.

I am so large that even a Super Walmart did not have clothes to fit.  Despite changing my tone of The Jogging Clydesdale from a runner's blog to an introspective journal of weightloss nearly a year ago, I am at my heaviest and my largest. Ever.

And that's the truth.

I have a wife recovering from a serious health issue; one that prevents her even now from a completely normal life and the possibility of employment. I have children to care for.  I have bills to pay.  I have a job to perform.  I have issues of my own to deal with.  I am stressed beyond anything I ever imagined I could go.  And I eat to deal with stress.

I have a history with food as a great comforter, as a conveyance of love, as a link to a childhood.  And I eat to remember those time I felt loved.

I have discovered that there is some part of me that fears never having food again.  I don't know where that comes from.  I cannot remember a time when food was scarce; either in my parent's home or in my adult life.  I don't understand this one.  And yet, I eat to make sure I'll have enough.


I have bad habits.  I don't know where they all come from.  I know Sundays were always popcorn days.  Mom rarely left a gas station without a candy bar for us.  I have triggers simply because it's what I've always done.  I eat because it's what I do.

I eat when I'm bored.

I eat when I want to celebrate.

I eat when my stomach is upset and I think a little something will settle it down.  A box of granola bars is a little something, apparently.


I don't like myself.  I don't love myself.  I have grown a lot in this area and have taken great strides toward acceptance.  But I'm not there yet.  And I eat because I believe all the things I tell myself: you are weak. you are ugly.  you have no control. go on, feed your fat fucking face, you deserve no better.  I eat because I hate myself.

I eat not because it nourishes my body, but because food has meaning.  Food has emotions.  Food has histories. Food is a weapon and a reward.

And here's the thing.  I'm dying.  I am one glucose tolerance test away from diabetes.  The way I carry my fat on my belly and apron shows that I am statistically higher risk for a heart attack.  I am afraid of learning that my high blood pressure is back.  I am in very poor health.  I should care about this.  This should scare the hell out of me and prompt me to do something about it.  But the immediate reward of a binge has more immediate meaning than a long, hard path to recover that health does.

I am tired of this.  So tired.  I am tired of hitting this bottom time after time after time.

I don't know what I'm going to do this time, but something has to change.

I am too important to give up.