Diary of a mad, fat girl

Allow me to introduce myself – I am a former SKINNY girl. You know the type – the one who can eat anything and never gain a pound. I once had a very perturbed friend open my office desk drawer to find a baggie with one Oreo in it. “How can you leave one?! I don’t get it! You ate two and left the last one?” Complete and utter hysterical disbelief, and, if my recollection holds true, incorrect in her presumption that it was self-control that limited me to just the two eaten cookies. No, I was a skinny girl remember . . . I just didn’t want the last one. Five years ago, after three c-sections, I weighed 95 pounds at slightly less than five feet tall. I wore a size zero and Target’s Merona brand didn’t even have a size pant to fit me.  I was living the life in tiny swimsuits (ahem, just the size mind you – I am a bit self-conscious and appreciate a little modesty). I could shop in the girls department for pants and shirts (and bras, but that changed soon enough). Okay, okay, I was small and I disgusted more than a few female friends with my body type and effortless weight watching.

Today, right this second, I am roughly 30ish pounds heavier. Some would tsk this by saying in that time frame I have had yet another baby and c-section, breast augmentation (but these perky little ladies only weigh maybe 3 pounds!) and I turned 30. BUT, but, I am also ANGRY. MAD. Hateful. Annoyed. And not because of the weight, in spite of the weight. My anger and ill mental health has caused me to turn to food for comfort, but it’s obviously comforting only my seat.

I know this isn’t rock bottom, but it’s bottom. I feel the slimy squishiness of algae covering the rocks I am sure to meet soon. I have spent the past day on the couch in Hubby’s red plaid flannel jammie pants enjoying a days’ worth of a Law and Order: SVU marathon (and they were all good! Not a dud for six hours!). Normally this type of day wouldn’t be so trying to my psyche, but I combined the lethargy with stuffing my face with no less than the following: 2 Cinnabon cinnamon rolls (and the extra frosting I licked from the plastic container it came in), three cups of Donut House coffee with 2 servings each of Italian Sweet Cream creamer, my McDouble, my medium fry, son’s McDouble minus half of one “meat”, son’s medium fry less half, animal crackers, the chocolate parts of countless Oreo cookies after said son licked all the cream off (saved some calories there!), and the pièce de résistance – an entire cucumber to redeem myself for my food transgressions. Unfortunately, my self (that spiteful harpy), had to eat a Hershey bar to make up for the cucumber. After the piece of four-day-old deep-dish sausage pizza. Oh, and the bowl of chicken-flavored ramen, which, strangely enough, tasted a lot like curry. Yummy. I’m starting to think I have an unhealthy relationship with food.

As I sit here tallying the mistakes I’ve made today, one thing is perfectly clear: I am my own worst enemy. I recently told a friend that it seems that I will sabotage any diet I attempt. Any psychiatrist would attribute this to self loathing. Sooooo, aren’t I just a ray of freakin’ sunshine?