A fat girl with a food issue.

Shit, that’s a real shocker.

Not every fat girl has a food problem, but this one does. I am not, however, a representation of all fat people or fat women. My body is not a crisis.

I’m pretty sure that I was the crisis.

Notice that past-tense.

For over a year, I was trying to kill myself. Maybe even two years.

Not that it’s all behind me; certainly not. I have an enormous amount of work to do and that work starts with not going to McDonalds anymore. Which is incredibly embarrassing to admit. Yes, I have a fucking problem. And that problem begins with a cheeseburger and the golden arches.

I’ve mentioned it here — the cheeseburgers and the fries — but I have never written that, dude, I’m addicted. Like, I’m going to die, need to be on Intervention because this is so out of control, addicted.

Every time I went I would be completely overwhelmed by 1) how truly awesome it tastes 2) how guilty I felt that I just ate literal shit 3) the terrible example I was setting.  So, obviously, I would  go and do it all over again the next day. And the next.

And gain about 6 million pounds.

Get a bigger size and convince myself that I didn’t have a problem.

But then that size would get tight, so I would have to get a bigger one.

Then I would demand that people only take pictures from THIS ANGLE OR I WILL CUT YOU and then, at some point, I realized: if I don’t stop, I am going to die a Mama Cass, urban legend death. Except with a double cheesey. And it will totally be true.

This much is true: I know better, but I absolutely refused to do anything about it. Why? Because I hate myself that much.

What do I hate?

That the people in my life who are supposed to be there through thick and thin — this completely and unequivocally excludes Slasher and the Kid — are not there. That for a very long time, joyful moments have been met with discord and utter ridiculousness. My body is a war zone for everyone else’s emotional landmines.  And for many, many years and even now, I didn’t love myself enough to say: you are wrong, your words and actions are hateful and it has nothing to do with me.

To be clear, it’s not all “them.” No one forced a cheeseburger in my hand, just like no one forces a crack pipe. It’s me too. Obviously.

At the end of the drive-thru, it’s me making the decision. No one else.

There is no way to describe the darkness of self-harm.

I used to live next to a woman who never ate. In three years, I think I saw her eat once. She would run on the treadmill until she passed out and I would look at her with utter disgust: WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO YOURSELF?! How could that husband just let you whither away and blather on about how you used to be fat, but now — without eating — you’re fabulous and half dead!

I used to run during this period and she would always stop and ask me how much weight I had lost and what I was eating. I would blow her off because running wasn’t about the weight loss. In fact, I had no idea. I didn’t weigh myself, I just ate what I wanted and ran.

I judged her, and shame on me.

Because I am her.

This weekend I said enough, no more. I threw out everything. I started checking off the days that I avoided McDonalds.

It’s day 2.

I’m not far in this journey, but I’m a lot closer to healing than I was.

Without the food numbing what was going on, I can honestly look at what I was hiding. This isn’t about LOOK! I lost 6 million pounds and you should too. it’s much deeper than that. It’s about knowing that if I continue along my current path, I will kill myself.

What I put out is what I want to put in: light, love, and one helluva good time. I want to burst with energy and smart choices. I’d also like to bend over every now and again.

Today I danced for an hour. Literally.

That, my friends, is a great start.