Tell me when I stop falling

(Sincere Apologies to my mother and Angeleen.)

I have just finished sewing a cobbler apron for myself. That's not entirely true, I finished everything but the pockets because by then I had tried it on three times and each time I saw myself in it my heart beat just a little faster and my blood pressure was either rising or dropping, I'm not actually sure, but it feels lighter in my head right now. And not because I've junked all the crap that hangs out in there. I didn't finish the pockets because, well, why bother? I sure as hell am not going to get caught dead wearing that garment. Another five hours of my time completely wasted in the effort to spruce myself up.

An effort that has been making me feel increasingly worse about myself. I can't do it anymore. I can't dress the part of my own store because I don't FUCKING FIT IN A GOD DAMNED THING. Oh, and it isn't just a question of how I look in them, because how vain would that be? Anyone who's been seriously overweight knows what I mean when I say that nothing feels right. Nothing is comfortable.

I don't know how to come back down this road. The one that got me in this awful physical place. My doctor would like me to return to therapy, and I want to. I do. I need to, because right now I have no retreat. Every effort I make to help myself feel better about how I look endlessly rebounds on me, makes me want more beer, more cookies, more cheese, more potatoes. Which makes me fatter. And fatter.

Oh my god. This path is going to turn me into a six hundred pound woman unable to get through her own front door.

You know, when I weighed 155 pounds and was trying to get used to the fact that that was twenty pounds more than I was used to carrying around on my body, I didn't know I could feel this much worse about myself. Back then I just made myself new clothes and because my body was still an average size, I was able to change my clothes and that was it. I felt so much better. I didn't know a person could hate their own body as much as I do right now. I don't even have the words to tell you how much I hate it because the words are so ugly I almost made myself retch just thinking them in my own head.

It isn't that being heavy is so unattractive, because I don't actually see it that way. I see other women who have the same body that I do and none of the same thoughts come to me. I only see all the things that make them attractive. Except for in myself.

It's impossible for me to love my own body when it has so deeply disappointed me. It let me down first by breaking in a stupid fluke of a fall that shouldn't have even bruised anything, let alone fractured my hip socket in five places. It's been down hill ever since. Now it disappoints me every time I try to rectify the damage I did to my body while lying around in bed unable to walk. All that cheese. All that beer. All that sugar. I try to get back into the exercise routines and my body fails me. My joints hurt. My back goes out. My feet hurt.

I am so angry at myself for having let things get this far that I just want to punish myself. So instead of treating my body like some kind of fruity temple, I just keep trashing it. But now it's totally out of control. I can't seem to get the reins back into my hands. It's like the Devil is driving this truck of a body and all I can do is watch this long slow motion wreck careen itself off of a cliff.

How much farther do I need to fall before I hit the bottom of this personal quarry?

I am supposed to be dressing the part of my June Cleaver dream. But I can't. I just bought more fabric and patterns yesterday to sew some new clothes, so that I will look cuter. More vintage or retro inspired. I was depressed choosing my patterns because I knew what waited for me on the other end of the project: disappointment. But I went ahead and started with a cobbler apron in hopes that it would be more comfortable and attractive on me than the cocktail aprons that either have to be tied just under my boobs or completely underneath my belly because they won't stay tied where they should be tied around my "waist".

I just can't do it. It's killing me inside. I need to wear black, I need to wear indistinct clothing that I couldn't care a rat's ass about because if I try to go ahead and wear the kind of clothes I actually like then I will constantly be reminded of my disappointment, my anger, and my shame that I used to actually look good in these same styles.

I was a plus size twenty pounds ago. I was a plus size forty pounds ago. So it's not like I'm a size 8 person freaking out because I'm almost a size 10. Throughout my life people have always been surprised to find out what size I am; no matter what size I am people always think I couldn't possibly be that size. The reason for this interesting phenomenon is (in my opinion) that I don't dress in things I know I can't pull off at whatever size I am. Style is something I have been avidly interested in for my whole life. The fit of clothes, how they look best on people is something I know a lot about. As subject to personal taste as style is, there are general rules to follow if you want to look nice and I know what they are.

There are only two things I can pull off right now and neither of them look cute, stylish, cool, retro, or remotely memorable.

I'm not saying this to be mean to myself. This is just the way it is. Anything else would just be an attempt to massage a very bruised ego. This is useless because inevitably I run into a reflective window or a mirror and it speaks very plainly.

Measurements don't lie.

I suppose it would shock everyone to know that the life I'm leading is quite unhealthy for me. It's much to busy. Much too stressful. I have an entrepreneurial spirit but a rather unstable nervous system, the two do not coexist easily. I've worked so hard to build what I'm building and it has reminded me of how much better my life was as a housewife/stay at home mom. My kid has suffered. My spouse has suffered. And I am suffering from the constant attention our business requires. Attention that is taken away from our home, our quality of life, and our well being.

Having a store is not the reason I'm fat. It's just the reason I feel incapable of doing anything about it. I have no time to plan for exercise, to have quiet reflective moments in which to calm my nerves, to bake bread, to fold my laundry, and to cook nutritious food. The best years of my entire life (so far) were the ones I spent staying home. I never once felt trapped by staying home. I didn't have time. I was just as busy as I am now, it's just that all my busyness added so much to our quality of life. I got a sense of deep satisfaction from it.

Unfortunately I can't stop what I'm doing because it's not as though there's any other income options on the horizon. We can't pay the bills on nothing. We already know that.

I will go make a couple of head scarves and I promise to wear them every day to work. I will keep on wearing make up and trying to look nice for my store. But I am not going to keep trying to figure out a way to wear stylish clothes a la June Cleaver, because I am now deeply depressed over it and I don't think digging myself a deeper hole is a good idea.

I'm so sorry mom and Angeleen.