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My current weight makes me want to find a hole and bury myself.

I don’t want to go out in public, because I don’t want anyone to see me.

I hate pictures of me and my daughter because all I see are double chins.

I put clothes on and feel defeated.

My wardorbe consists of maternity clothes and my husband’s old t-shirts.

I look in the mirror after a shower and wonder how my husband could possibly even pretend to find me attractive.

I don’t hate my stretch marks. I can live with those. I hate the fat, the hanging flab. The state that my once youthful breasts are now in.

I hate feeling tired and weak and unhealthy.

I feel like a failure.

I hate my body and what it is doing to my mind.

I want to make a change, but I feel stuck.

Like my feet are in concrete.

I hate that I have a pool in my backyard and will soon be subjected to visitors in bikinis.

I went from this:

Skinny me

to this:

fat me

I need a way out.

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