Today is not a good day.
Today I weighed in, like I do every week, and saw that I’d gained another two kilos. This from only a week ago.
I hate that gaining anything – let alone two kilos – sets the whole tone of my day, sometimes even my week.
I hate that I feel the need to weigh in every week, but find that I’m compelled to do so. Heck, I’m actually quite proud of myself that I’ve always managed to keep it to weekly weigh ins, and not more frequent. But I can’t weigh myself less frequently, and I certainly can’t not weigh myself.
More than that, today’s two kilo gain not only tops my updated-every-week “highest weight I’ve ever been” record, it also means that I now have a full forty kilos that I need to lose. For those of you that ‘don’t do metrics’, that’s 89 pounds. I suppose I should be happy that it’s not “half of me”… but at the rate I’m going, it won’t be long until it is.
It also places me 0.8 of a BMI unit away from the threshold needed to be considered for publicly-funded weight loss surgery.
Not that that’s a goal for me. Or, for that matter, that I’d be likely to be chosen, as the publicly funded surgeries here are still relatively rare, and I doubt I’d be a likely candidate either as I haven’t got any other corresponding disease. Rather, it just shows me how bad it’s gotten.
As if I couldn’t tell from looking in the mirror.
As if I couldn’t tell from seeing photos of me.
As if I couldn’t tell by the fact that my clothes seem to be shrinking a touch each week.
As if I couldn’t tell by the fact that none of the clothes I want to buy are available in my size.
As if I couldn’t tell by the way I’ve become invisible in society.
The part that really pisses me off about the whole situation is that I’m not allowed to bitch about it. In part, because it’s of course it’s all my fault anyway. But also because nowadays everyone’s an expert, even if they’re in the same boat.
“Oh, I know how you feel. I’ve just started (fill in the blank) program and lost (insert impressive sounding number here) kilos.”
“It’s the carbs.”
“It’s the sugar.”
“It’s the processed foods.”
“It’s the meat.”
“It’s simple, after all, it’s just calories in vs. calories out.”
Honestly, I’ve been fat my whole life. And since before I was in highschool, I’ve been on a diet of some sort, or guiltly planning to be. Frankly, I don’t really buy any of it anymore.
More than that though, I’m sick and tired of it being open season on obesity. Yes, I know it’s a problem. And, this may surprise you, but I also know I’m fat. I know this raises my risk factor of dozens of diseases.
I know it’s bad.
Frankly, I also know of all kinds of programs I can go on, officially or unofficially, to work at changing the way I am.
To work at being different than myself.
Be a better you!
Obviously, the me I am – the fat me – isn’t good enough. And should I say it is, virtually everyone will jump up to remind me otherwise.
My body is a prison made of self-hate.