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:
I need a way out.