I have a lot of shit to say and I want to say it honestly, without edits. Ready? Here it goes:
Last time I tried to lose weight I was successful for a time. In an effort to draw attention from my cripplingly low self esteem, I named this effort ‘The War On The Chubber’, using anthropomorphism to give an identity to the part of me that is a fat, greedy person. The part of me that can’t say no to the utter shit that is bad for my body.
Back when I did make the effort to lose weight, I actually inspired some people and I lost two stones (just over) in the process. I was in a regime. I was attacking the fat in my body systematically. I did research. I listened to people who had successful approaches to eating well and excercising effectively. I built a small collection of excercise equipment and used it well. Let’s be clear: I succeeded. I looked good. I fit in clothes I didn’t before.
Then disaster hit – I had to leave the house I owned. The house I owned had a garage and in that garage was all of my exercise stuff. I moved into a cottage (rented) where I couldn’t home my equipment, so I basically relied on home exercises and 5-a-side football to keep up my fitness and to keep the weight off. Amidst this process began a new relationship – a perfect relationship that feeds my ego and pushes all of my happy buttons, and you know what they say about happiness and weight gain. What’s more, I do the cooking for this relationship, so I am in control of portion sizes, which means that The Chubber himself is back in the driving seat…
Then disaster struck. I broke my ankle playing 5-a-side football. Goodbye exercise, hello belly fat and no efforts to lose weight, because hey – “I’ll do it when I can use my foot again”.
The worst fucking part about being a fat fuck is admitting you are a fat fuck and that you have let yourself go. Well this is me attacking my chubber by admitting that I am, in fact, an addict, a glutton and a pig. I enjoy self-abuse and mine feeds a nasty beast we will still refer to as ‘The Chubber’. A broken ankle does not excuse silly portion sizes, or an over indulgence of booze. I should be in control.
I’m back at square one: I went to 5-a-side football tonight (the 3rd time since my ankle has healed) and I was abominable. I have no physical go. I’m sweating with little effort. I was a disgrace and my team mates gave up passing to me. I was a joke. I STARTED Tuesday night 5-a-side football, along with another lad, and I was pretty much neither useful, or wanted, and I can’t blame any of the lads there.
I’ll be honest – I had to fight back tears on the way home. I realised that I had let the last of my pride crumble.
Let’s get something straight, those judgemental pricks who are reading this and thinking that I’m attention seeking. YES, I am attention seeking, so that people know that I am henceforth battling my weight, characterised for your entertainment as a nasty little beast called ‘The Chubber’. The first step of addiction is admitting that you have a problem. Well I HAVE A PROBLEM. It lives in me. It is nobody’s fault but mine, but my self-esteem is through the floor and action must be taken.
So pay fucking attention, and hold me accountable. I deserve better from myself. Welcome to the war.