My name is XX, and I am not an addict

My story of losing over half of my body weight to an eating disorder, then gaining more than double my body weight back because of saying each night, “Tomorrow I will be anorexic again.”

I am not some nut who wants to have an eating disorder to lose weight or to have a label. I’m just a former sufferer of anorexia who was obese prior to that diagnosis, who regained enough weight to become not only obese following “recovery”, but who went onto extremely morbid obesity. I really did have an eating disorder. That’ the last time I’m going to say it. Hell, I probably still have one.

Earlier this year, I decided that I had been given a new lease on life (cue cliché).

I just wanted to finally stop listening to the impulses in my head and gut, and to reason. All of that gobbledygook that my therapists had said to me way back when had to be worth one solid college try, right?

I am sitting here, having lost 60+ pounds of a total 140 that needs to come off, musing on what changes a simple thing like taking a bath can feel like after you can see your knees again.

Tonight, I sat in the creamy warm water, stretching my shortened spinal column, and realised that I could fit 4 more inches of me into the tub between my shrinking hip width and the side.

In years past, I had trouble even suctioning my wider ass and hips down into a tub, and would often realise that my own body had made a dam for the water — all of it filling the tub to my front, and nothing but glaring air to my rear.

And getting out of the tub? A nightmare of fear resting on two wrists for 350+ pounds of weight. A mere 175 pounds each! I would shift and suction and shift as water rushed behind me, finally reaching the back area of the tub as I was exiting. I would vow that I hated baths. Screw the Lush products I loved! I’m off baths!

And tonight, another revelation: I could rest my head on my knees as I hugged them in my ample water-surround, in hips that now fit into 36 inch jeans.

There is such a huge difference between 315 pounds (my May, 2015 starting point), and 250 pounds (my hovering reality as I type).

I know! I know. No numbers. Numbers are triggering. Only if you believe in the addiction mindset that there is NO hope. That you will always be a slave to your addiction as a fucked up about food freak.

Numbers are saving my ass, or rather, shaving off my ass.

I started this shebang by monitoring every morsel I put into my mouth. Another blog post might be good with a show and tell of my old food diaries (old as in 4 months ago). Let’s just say (as in the spirit of the UK show that’s polarised a nation) that I was feeding 2+ people many days.

Now, I feed 1- of myself, which is the only formula for losing weight that works. Calories in equals less than calories required. Once this stage is over, the maintaining will come. I have never maintained anything to do with weight or food in my life.

I have clothing for all ages and sizes in my closet. All genders too. Men’s clothing tends to be more forgiving once you’re above the women’s sizes where they think you could possibly be both tall and fat.

But that is for another day.

For now, this is my entrance into blogging about recovery with hope, sans hopelessness.

I know I can do it. I already am.

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