Operation Mini-Skirt: -45.8 lbs.
Mental Forecast: High of neutral, low of fraught
So, in a kind of rotted and fermenting cherry to place atop the Sundae of Layoffs that's been happening around these parts, Pierce got the axe yesterday. Most distressing, really. See, the four Piranhas that got it last week - totally understandable. They were in the hole, they were making no money, and frankly, I didn't enjoy any of them too much. Then, when my Veep got it, well, I was torn on that one. I mean, her layoff was like a Margaret Atwood novel. I can appreciate it for it's value, but that doesn't necessarily mean I like the damn thing. Y'know? I feel a certain loyalty to her, because she went to bat for me on several occasions. Furthermore, she's one of the few genuinely nice people left on this earth. Pierce though... well, that just sucks rocks, because not only is he one of the remaining people in this place who's capable of an interesting thought, but he's also part of the company's support team. God knows, they need the manpower. Plus, it's not like he was making that much - so really, in the grand scheme of things, they're saving approximately squat.
I thought I heard hints o'raise for me in the air, but now I'm starting to wonder. It's all most upsetting.
* * *
My uncle, Two-Ten Jimmy came over last night. We got to talking, and as it usually happens, the topic of weight came up. Weight is a big thing in his life because of his family, and he's really proud of me for shedding a lot of mine. However, as the conversation went on, he started digging deeper and deeper, prodding the rawest and most sensitive parts of me, picking at the whys and hows of my weight gain, preaching and arguing and talking at me until I couldn't stand it anymore. I'm not certain what exactly set it off, but somehow, without expecting it, I exploded at him in a fury of yelling and tears and basically... broke down.
Christ. I love my uncle. But last night, I wanted to take a bat to his head for opening up things that I'm not ready to open. The worst part is that my mother was in the room and blandly wondered why this was so emotional for me. Look, at the best of times, I'm a hell of drama queen. But this? This? This is hell. This is not a cry for attention. This IS NOT drama, Goddammit! If I wanted attention, I'd tap dance for you. And you know I would, too. I do not go to anybody and say, "Woe is me. I was fat because I'm sad. Feel sorry for me."
I was trapped for so long inside a shell of fat... I think that, far more difficult than the diet itself, is the realisation that losing the weight has not solved all my problems. I still want to eat too much, and I still want to do it when I'm unhappy. I still lack the discipline to be alone in a room when there's food around. But that's MY problem, people! Mine! All mine! Don't try to share it or understand it or simply say, "Well, just don't go to the food if you know you shouldn't, Mare." It's not that bloody simple, dammit. And I'm NOT saying that my problem with food is bigger than other people's problem with food, or drink, or sex, or drugs or deafness or blindness or losing a limb or insane relatives or the list goes on and on and on. I'm just saying that my problem is MINE. So don't go trying to bugger around with it.
(You know I'm not yelling at you, right poppets? You know that?)
Sure, I look better. I feel better. I'm getting more positive attention than I ever did, and it's making me more confident. But you know, that's all window dressing. Because at the very core of it is this terrifying truth. Every day, I struggle with the fact that if ever something halfway upsetting happens, I'll run to the pantry faster than you can say Doritos with a side of McDonalds. This... this whole new size thing... it's all balanced on a tightwire, and I really don't know if I have the strength or the balance to keep it going for the rest of my life.
Right. All of a sudden, I'm tired. I have a feeling it's going to be a long day. Much love to you, my beauties.
0 comments so far