I'm old and fat and it's winning.
Last weigh-in I was 381 pounds. Twelve pounds shy of the biggest number I've ever carried.
My back hurts. I can't walk more than a few minutes without it hurting more.
I have a therapist and a psychiatric nurse practitioner and Duloxetine and an eating disorder therapist and an eating disorder group therapy and a physical trainer and a physical therapist and I am old and fat and it's winning.
There is fight left in me, but there is no inspiration. No hope. There is a will to keep going because there is simply nothing else to do, but there is no hope.
My physical therapists kept telling me "if it hurts stop doing it" then one day they started saying "well if hurts that isn't necessarily bad" so now I'm convinced they just want to get rid of me, because they know they can teach me more stretches than a rubber band and it won't help because I'll just keep getting fatter.
No more OA. Know what someone said at OA?
They said if you're a longtime OA member, you have a responsibility to be physically fit to serve as an example to newcomers.
Translation: If you're fat, stay home.
Aye, aye, fucker.
I'll fight. I'll lose the weight, somehow.
But I'm going to be miserable. I'm going to be motherfucking miserable.
You know. For variety's sake.
