Busted...

Busted my pants that is. How embarrassing. I was at work yesterday and looked in the mirror in the bathroom and noticed low and behold I had busted my pants right at the seam of the back pocket. Just another testament to the fact that I'm way too fat. My fat clothes are even too tight. How depressing. (Well do something about it right?) I'm trying to get back on track. Even from the weight I had lost I gained more - so from my new start as of almost a week ago I've lost 4.2 lbs. Even that doesn't excite me though because I know I've got so much to lose, and that one day of blowing it will put that hard earned 4.2 lbs right back on. If I had the extra money to spend I'd be finding a weight watchers meeting right now to go to.. but right now I can't afford another $12 a week.

One day last week I even called in sick to work because I was so disgusted with myself and how I looked in my clothes. Not to mention how much my knees and back are hurting... I've got all the reasons to do this... so why can't I make myself do it?

Going Somewhere, But Not Fast

Almost two months have gone by and I lost a few pounds, but then gained them back plus some. Now I was even closer to the 200 lb. mark and even more depressed and unmotivated. My company's Christmas party is this weekend and I had nothing to wear, none of my 'party' dresses fit me anymore. I went shopping and found an okay dress that was on sale, but it was a little too tight. I admit, I had to turn it around backwards and bunch it up at my waist to zip it, then inch it back around and up over my boobs. Technically it fit... so I bought it. I thought surely I could just drink extra water over the next week and it would be alright.

Rock Bottom: A Moment of Realization

I've had a weight problem ever since I started third grade. I used to stay with my grandmother after school and she would feed my brother and I, because that's what grandmothers do. Then my mother came home and would cook us dinner, when we had just eaten meal sized snacks two hours before. She recognized the problem and would tell us to eat less, and ask us every day what we had for 'snack'. That's when I started feeling guilty about food. I'd either conveniently forget to tell her everything I ate, or fib about my proportions. As I grew up I became a "sneaker" I'd sneak food when no one was around, or I'd sneak into the kitchen for a snack. If no one saw me eat it... it didn't count.