not insignificant; it’s my life; it’s my mood. I thought I had made peace
with my obsession, but my definition of self-respect, self-worth, and
confidence is still determined by my weight.  
 I only wear sweat pants so no one can
see the shame layered on my hips and thighs. I don’t want to leave
the house because I’m too fat, and the house is tired of sheltering me and my insecurities, tired of hiding
me inside her judgmental walls. But I’m too afraid to leave the house at this weight.
I really don’t want to live at this number. I’m not suicidal, but I
would rather be dead than be this fat.
I can only guess my re-awakened obsession with my fat might have to
do with the nightmares and memories reminding me even more of my
shame and damage.
I’m upset. I miss Therapist, and we don’t see him for another week
and a half. We don’t know where to turn for support. We have no
It doesn’t matter anymore.  
“He that lives upon hope will die fasting.” ~ Benjamin Franklin
has killed the dream I dream.” ~ Les Miserable