Many years ago I recall telling a friend, “If I ever hit 300lbs, I’ll kill myself.” This morning I step on the scale to find I weigh 298.2.
1.8 lbs away from the day I never thought would come. I love my life, I love my friends, my family. I have a career that I am passionate about and a bright and talented daughter who means the entire world to me. I couldn’t imagine leaving her without a mother, I couldn’t imagine taking my own life because I have reached an arbitrary number on the scale.
But the truth is, every day I climb closer and closer to 300lbs, I am taking my own life. Not because 300 is some magic or tragic number, but because I feel more joint pain in my knees, experience more back spasms, because my mobility decreases with each pound that I add to my body. The heart palpitations, shortness of breath, and the convincing feeling that I have probably already suffered a mini-stroke.
Now I feel like I have been on one never ending diet since I was 12. I remember taking slim-fast to school in a thermos along with carrot sticks when I was in 7th grade. I don’t want to be on a diet anymore. I don’t want to feel somehow different because I can’t eat like a “normal” person. But I don’t want to gain another 1.8lbs either.
It is not a new year’s resolution, or a competition or challenge. I want to live. So if I wake up on morning and the scale has reached or tipped 300lbs, I won’t kill myself, but I am going to stop killing myself today. I love my life and choose to live it and maximize its potential by making better choices.
Being honest about
the my problem is hopeful the first step.