I weigh myself on Monday mornings. I do this most Mondays unless I am feeling defiant, or guilty, or evasive. Yesterday was Monday. Labor Day. I weighed 230 pounds.
It horrifies me to write here how much I weigh. I usually mark it on the calendar I keep in the bathroom for keeping track of things like my period and when I (rarely) exercise. I have years and years of calendars now and the weight just keeps climbing up. To 230 pounds. The most I've ever weighed, but not the first time I've weighed this much.
Last year at this time, I weighed the same. I had the summer off and I was wallowing in self-pity and frustration that school didn't start until after Labor Day. When I got back to school and a routine, I felt much better and started to lose weight. Well, I had off this summer, too, and I spent most of it wallowing and being frustrated about not finding a job. And I'm 230 pounds again. This is seven pounds more than I was when I gave birth sixteen years ago!
I have to start dealing with my fat issues. I obviously can gain weight. I can lose it when I'm really focused on it. I can't keep it off. I am either losing or gaining--not maintaining. I hate being fat.
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