The fact that I am fat, obese, seriously unhealthy, can't touch my toes without being in pain, unable to bend over without holding on something, can't find clothes that don't fit like tents (because that is what they are) ... all this doesn't motivate me to lose weight. In fact, in many ways, it sends me to the cookies and ice cream.
Odd, isn't it? I am intelligent (fairly so, anyway). I know losing weight will help my health. Exercise will help my attitude toward life. Both will increase my quality of life. I might even have a date again not based on pity or overlooking my size. Yet ... I do not.
I am diabetic. Diabetes kills people. It kills people. It has killed clients, friends and family. It can be controlled by careful diet, exercise, medication. I could control it. I might even be able to force it back.
So why aren't I?
Why am I trying to kill myself? Why am I choosing to be fat? Why is food my master?
I don't have answers.
But I'm going to find some. Or I'm going to shut up and eat myself to an early death. If I don't work on saving myself, I'm going to stop whining about it. If food ends up being my choice of suicide weapon, so be it, but I'm going to stop pretending to care if I really don't.
I'm not done yet. I think I can raise the standard once more.
I'm not done.