Little in the middle? Meh, not so much.

I've gone chunky my friends. It was to be expected, and yet. Sugar Keeps You Sober and If You Want a Drink, Drink a Milkshake. If You Still Want to Drink, Have Another and fuck off already! I did some mental calculations when I first quit drinking. I added up all of the calories in a fifth of Jamesons and subtracted it from daily total of calories consumed. I then subtracted the calories burned from the nervous pacing and fidgeting so prevalent in early sobriety. By my calculations I should have lost 35 pounds already. What the eff gives? HUH?!?!?

I'll tell you what gives. Just when you think it's lifted it's shifted (Yes this will be a highly sloganized posting. It pleases me.). Meaning, while my alcoholism is now lying dormant, that addict obsession has shifted over to my relationship with food. This leaves me with nights like last night. I lost a major battle with a Family Size Box of Velveeta Shells and Cheese. Sigh.

Most of the time, I feel like absolute poo, as well. I am very, very sensitive to sugar and my sugar addiction is raging right now which leaves me in an icky state. Inside and outside. My digestion is fucking whack, my moods are uncontrollable, and my love handles are bulbous. Again, sigh.

I need to get this out, because I have deep emotional trauma connected to weight fluxuations. Here and now, I should probably qualify that although I feel fat, and I beat myself up for being fat, I am most definitely not fat. I'm 5'10" and a size 8. But just a scant year ago I was a size 6 and I adored that. I adored that because my beloved (and deeply overweight) mother has had me convinced since Infancy that BAD THINGS DO NOT BEFALL SKINNY PEOPLE. The reason my father abandoned us? My mother's unsightly saddle bags of course! The reason we lived in abject poverty? Fat people do not, as a general rule, get good jobs. This was (is) my mother's dogma. So when I blossomed out of my chubby childhood into a tall and lanky adolescence my mother was certain that this was a divine sign that I (unlike her) was destined for happiness.

She was also certain that pulling me out of high school and getting me started modeling at the age of 13 was going to save us both. I won't even go into how much that colored my current relationship with my weight. Shit, I won't go into how that colored my current relationship with drugs and alcohol! It sent me off to the races. We can leave it at that. Oh, Mama. She really believed that I (skinny-minny me) would have peace and abundance that she never had. Which means to this day, I feel like I'm failing her when I find myself edging up into the next dress size.

So is the answer me going on another diet? Nah. I naturally really do dig healthy, vegan food. I eat the other shit to be self destructive. It doesn't even taste like food to me! I like to workout (although I don't because I have a big issue with showing up for things that are good for me.). I need to start healing some of this stuff, and I don't know how. It hurts to feel this way, it really does. It hurts to look in the mirror and feel disgusted by a spare tire that's not even that big. It hurts to not approach boys I like because the thought of getting naked in front of them makes me nauseous. It hurts to feel like I need to be locked away because I've got 7 lbs of back fat. To be fair, some of the 7 pounds seems to have been distributed to my boobage. Which is, admittedly, a plus.

Lighter inside, if not outside.
Ingenue