Dear 50 pounds, F*ck you.

This week I finally broke my plateau. I’ve lost over 50 pounds now. It was strange. My body barely budged for pretty much all of October, then yesterday I weighed-in with a loss of 3.6 pounds. That’s almost a bag of Russet potatoes, just so you know. I literally started hopping around, ecstatic to be hear that news. And during the actual WW meeting, they announced my loss, and that’s when my best friend spoke up and said, “that makes over 50 pounds for her!”. People applauded, and I immediately started crying. Like uncontrollably, with heaves and stuff. In that moment I had no idea just an emotional toll that weight had taken on me, and especially just how relieved I was to be actually losing it. Fifty Pounds. I find it now necessary to write a note to that bastard, Fifty.
Dear Fifty,
I’m sorry to tell you, but we are over. We are done, and you are never coming back into my life. You and I met when I was down and out, out of love with myself and needing much medicating. Although initially you were good to me with your padding and warmth, you ultimately kept me from doing the the things I now love, like moving my body. Leaving you has been a 6 month process, with me often wavering at the thought of all the sacrifices I’d have to make just to get rid of you. In the end, they were all worth it. I won’t miss you and I certainly love myself and know myself enough to know when relationships become abusive, which yours ended up becoming long before I saw it for myself. Oh, and you can tell your friend Thirty Pounds that I’ll be gearing up to leave him, too. I’m tired of being a pound whore. I’m ready to be a skinny bitch.



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