There is no denying, that in the end, when you strip away everything, you are the only person who stands responsible for getting here. You can look to outside influences, blame history or projection, you can say that had situations been different...different choices would have been made. You can claim time was short, money was scarce, support was weaning. And for the most part, you can convince yourself even on the best of days, all these things are true, and they might be as a matter of fact, BUT they negate nothing.

Why? Because in the end, your muscles are still sore, you body is still aching, and your health is still deteriorating. These are facts. You feel them every time you move, you breath, and you exert. At 43, my body feels more like 57 and what's most frustrating, is that I know better. I know how wonderful I feel after months of consistent yoga, or when I swim for an hour or make it up the hill trudging through the rain. Those things nourish my mind and body and spirit in ways that food can not and has never been able to. I feel fulfilled and accomplished and whole. So why do I stop? Why do I disengage from actions that HELP me? What the hell is wrong with me that causes me to keep sabotaging my own well being? 

Divulging into my own pathology is terrifying but there is a reason (or several reasons) I keep undermining my own success and accomplishments. To get the problem to a workable level, I must determine the underlying issues and include them into the entire equation. Continuing to miss pieces does not allow me to complete the puzzle, I can not get out of the madhouse until I start to make a comprehensive map to the door. 

So let's begin by discussing what being fat gains me, and make no mistake, it does provide me with aspects I feel are vital to my survival. I am cute, not drop dead model gorgeous, I don't have an appearance that stops traffic, I am not Helen of Troy beautiful, but when I'm slimmer I'm quite a cutie pie. I have a great personality, I'm fun, I love to laugh, I'm compassionate and understanding, and people genuinely like to be around me. When I'm heavy, none of these things bother me. I engage with strangers willingly and freely and am told quite often how I have a beautiful personality. I feel comfortable with each interaction I have. I feel safe.

But when I start to lose weight and transcend over from what I see as a fat happy person to a more attractive, desirable woman, as soon as the first comment comes or a stranger asks me out to dinner, I freak out. I just don't mean being uncomfortable and weirded out. I'm talking a full-fledged PTSD meltdown. I go from feeling in control to completely vulnerable and exposed. I feel weak and controlled. I question everyone's intent and over-analyze their verbiage. I don't want any other man than my husband of 25 years, I love him, I adore him (even though sometimes I want to kill him or make him lose his ability to speak for a few hours), so why can't people just continue to address me with no hint of sexuality. I don't want the comments, I despise that kind of attention, and I start to hate people.

Why do I do this? I'm a survivor of sexual assault and someone who doesn't want to be seen as a creature of someone else's sexual desire. I don't want to ever have to go through that again...EVER. I'm at a point in my life where it doesn't define me and I'm not embarrassed to talk about it if someone asks, I just don't want to have to go back to all that pain. So I've traded this heartache for that agony but as is turns out, they both suck eggs pretty hard and if I don't figure out how to make it all work together, they are each gonna put me in the grave collectively. And then he wins, without having done anything to me in years, the bastard wins and he victimizes me all over again. Shit.