Today is Wednesday, about ten months after my last post, and the second day of a new diet.
I don’t know why I do this to myself. I’m pretty much exactly where I started a year ago. Well, except that I’m heavier.
I have to do this. I can’t give up this time. At 290 I fit in a single airline seat. I want to go to Germany. I want to visit Khasha. To do that, I need to lose 70 pounds. I have to, I have to, I have to.
It’s depressing to see past optimism dry up. It’s distressing to look at my weight loss chat in the spreadsheet. “I did this, and I was successful, and then I stopped. I’ll stop this time, too. I’ll never be thin.”
I’m seeing a psychiatrist on Monday. Prozac helped before, until I stopped taking it, like I stopped dieting, like I stop doing everything to help myself.