I’m ashamed to admit it: I hardly ever look at my naked or semi-naked body in the mirror. It’s either dark, or I’ve got a towel around me when I’m naked.

I still hate the way I look, although I’ve accepted that I’m the only person who can change it. Nobody else can do that for me (although having a great support group certainly helps!) and it’s going to be a long, hard struggle.

So, this morning while I was rooting around in my pigsty trying to find something cool enough to wear in this insane humidity, I happened to glance over at the vanity mirror while I was sitting on my computer chair.

FATGIRLslim | In Which Tracy Is Ashamed

Somehow, I look even worse when I’m sitting down. Yesterday, I happened to look down at my hands when I was typing something for the first time in forever, and, because I have a glass desk, I also noticed that my stomach under the desk is squished flat up to the top of the underneath of the desk.

But it never occurred to me that it’d look like this.

This is how I look to the outside world, when I’m sitting on a bus or sitting in a restaurant or a bench, or if I have to sit down on the ground to wait for something if I can’t stand up any longer.

This is how I will look to potential workmates, if I don’t lose weight in the time between now and getting a new job.

This is how I look to friends and family and everyone else.

I’m ashamed and disgusted – ashamed that I don’t look in the mirror more often, because maybe if I did, I wouldn’t have gotten to this stage; disgusted, because I let myself get to this stage, of a gelatinous mound of flesh with old bones creaking and me, stuck inside it.

The annoying thing is that I know how to fix it. I’ve known how to fix it, since Mum and I started going to Weight Watchers together – Trish was an amazing leader, and the Core plan really worked! – but I can’t seem to keep it together. I don’t know what it’s going to take to get it back together and keep it together, but I’m going to have to damn well try, because the idea of rolling around to get something off of my bed or out my yarn box or something and seeing that body in the mirror (I almost typed and seeing that in the mirror and then realised I’d be doing exactly what all those other people had done, and de-humanising me. Admittedly, I’m almost separating myself from my body, but… I kind of feel like it’s not my body. That’s not who I am; not what I am. If that makes sense.) would just break me to a point where I couldn’t be fixed.

So where do I start?

I’m not entirely sure.

But I’ve heard that the beginning’s a pretty good place.

I’m not sure how widespread the knowledge is, but it’s Glasgow’s turn to host the Commonwealth Games. You’d think it wouldn’t particularly affect me, given that I don’t, you know, live in Glasgow.

You’d think.

To be honest, I’d forgotten that the opening ceremony was tonight. When I thought about today, I thought: “I have a doctor’s appointment today at 2.10pm. I better leave the house at around 1.15pm so I don’t miss it, because I have to remember to include the extra ten minutes from Hillhouse to Burnbank now.

I wasn’t thinking, “When I’m finished in town, I’m going to have to wait for 75 minutes for a taxi to get home.”

See, I had that appointment with Dr. David to discuss two things: one, that my left arm continues to go numb, and only my pinky and ring finger are affected by it. My wrist, elbow and shoulder are sore, as is the back of my neck.

(Apparently there’s nothing to be done for this. It could be something to do with a nerve, but it’s usually a tablet-thing, and I’m already on two tablets that should take care of it… which means that really SHOULDN’T be feeling anything at all! And yet I am. Thanks, body! *sarcasm*)

Second, that I’m still constantly exhausted. Before, I was sleeping for 14 hours a day, depressed, etc, eating terribly. Now that my sleep schedule’s sorted out (I’m sleeping from anywhere between 11pm-1am – 9am-11am, usually 9 hours-ish, as dictated by the sleep cycle alarm on my phone) I’m still exhausted. My diet’s much better now that I’m eating Mum’s cooking for dinner – as in, I’m actually eating dinner! – and I’m still taking all of my tablets.

I’m talking full-on exhaustion, though. Not like, “I’m tired because of my tablets’ side-effects,” tired. I’m talking full-on exhaustion, depression, don’t want to get up and do anything because my muscles are too tired and my soul’s too tired kind of exhaustion.

So blood work’s getting done.

Headed into town and wandered through on down to ASDA to get myself more fruit than should be legal, bottles of soda (probably not helping ANY of my health problems; need to quit, don’t need to tell me this) and something for lunch.

Now, let me switch into present tense:

In Which Tracy Hates The Glasgow Commonwealth Games

I get out of ASDA at 5pm. “It’ll be 20 minutes,” the lady on the phone says. 20 minutes is… iffy. It’s easier because I’ve got my backpack on and it sort of redistributes everything and it’s kind of heavy and makes my posture better so my back doesn’t hurt as much. I tell her it’s fine.

20 minutes comes and goes. A guy who called the same company as me ten minutes AFTER me has already been picked up. It’s now 35 minutes since I called. I call them back. “Hi, I’m just calling to make sure that the car’s still coming to pick me up. Webster at ASDA.”

“Oh yeah, yeah. He’ll just be a few minutes, he’s just on his way.”

I take this to mean that the taxi will be arriving in a few minutes. As one does.

25 minutes later, and after having a conversation with a woman who has phoned another company and has been waiting 30 minutes, my car still hasn’t arrived. I call them back.

“Hi, I called 25 minutes ago. Webster at ASDA. Are you sure there’s a car coming for me? I first called about an hour ago…”

“Oh. Oh, yeah, he’s just dropping off at Hillhouse, and then we’re sending someone out for you.”

I actually hung up without saying anything, because… what? WE’RE SENDING SOMEONE OUT FOR YOU? You mean to say THERE HASN’T BEEN SOMEONE COMING FOR ME THIS WHOLE TIME LIKE YOU’VE BEEN TELLING ME?

By this point in time, I’ve got shooting pain down my right leg from my hip. My feet are on fire. My hip’s throbbing. The pain in the ball of my left foot is excruciating.

“It’s probably because of the games,” the other lady says. “The lady on the phone said they’ve got more traffic because of the games starting tonight.”

I curse sport and all sporting events up and down the length and breadth of the known world.

I’ve now been waiting for one hour and fifteen minutes, when finally the text comes through that my driver is coming around the roundabout to come into ASDA. At no point in time did I get an apology from the woman on the phone for having to wait for so long.

I wish the other lady best wishes while waiting for her taxi, that it comes soon.

While I’m in the taxi, the driver asks me if I’m going to watch the opening ceremony tonight.


I snorted. “God, no. I’m going home and dunking my feet into a bucket of ice water after waiting for an hour and a quarter in one place. I might watch a movie with a bucket of popcorn. Or read a book. Or slit my wrists. Anything but watch that crap.”

He laughed, and said he’d be watching as much of it as he could.

Personally, I couldn’t care less. And it’s not because of this isolated incident. And it’s not because I’m fat.

It’s because, while I appreciate that events like this draw in crowds – like the World Cup did in Brazil, and the Olympics in London, and Wimbledon, etc – I just don’t like them. They’re sponsored by fucking fast foods and sweets, and sodas of all things. I saw Barrs advertising tonight, which is a soft drinks manufacturer, focused on the Games tonight. Like the things that were sponsoring/advertising/focusing their advertising on the Olympics when that was happening… it’s not appropriate. It bugs the hell out of me.

Not to mention the fact that there’s a huge disruption to the people in the area (and, apparently, the surrounding area, even as far out as this – probably due to people going to see the bloody things and employers not getting enough cover, as Dad rightly pointed out a second ago) and the cost of it – *scream*

I am not a fan of sport. I don’t see why sportsmen are lauded above engineers and scientists and writers. I understand that it’s a huge discipline and requires training and stuff and jesus, please insert words here that describe all the rigorous workouts and stuff here because my brain’s gone blank, but y’all know what I mean! But I’m not a fan. Do it for personal pleasure, if you must, but you don’t see huge stadia being erected when it’s time to duke it out for the Man Booker, do you?



Basically, all this comes down to is this:

Dear Glasgow Commonwealth Games 2014,

FATGIRLslim | In Which Tracy Hates The Glasgow Commonwealth Games

FATGIRLslim | In Which Tracy Is Feeling Better
Other things that mean I’m feeling better: my room’s starting to look more like home, now I’ve got most of my stuff unpacked!

It’s weird, to be writing in the middle of the month and not to be freaking out over something.

Basically, I’m sitting here and I’m not freaking out over anything. I’m not freaking out over money or weight or pain or exercise. The thing that’s on my mind right now is Jesus Christ, I’ve still got so much to do in the flat, but it’s not enough to ruin my chill-ass mellow that’s going on. I’m just sitting here feeling better than I’ve felt in a long time.

The truth is that, taking time out and being at Mum and Dad’s is good. It’s like, the first night that I lay down here, and the following morning, was like waking up in a different universe. One where I didn’t have to worry about pretty much anything.

Oh dear god. It’s like I’ve left all of my adult worries behind.

I know that’s exactly it, but it’s not really. It’s just that, because I’m not having to worry about food or electric or gas, or whether I’m going to have enough money to actually eat this week or if I’m going to have to scrimp and scrounge and go freeganisming again, that there’s been this huge weight lifted off of my shoulders.

It’s not just me. Roxie, my Little Miss Kittles, has had this huge change, too, because she’s become an outdoor kitty here, and she’s enjoying hunting things – in-between sparring sessions with our grumpy old-lady kitty, Twig – and rolling in the sunshine and eating grass and sneaking into the next door neighbour’s garden to play with Margaret’s dog, Scooter. She’s like a totally different cat (except that she’s still the world’s biggest Momma’s Girl and she’s now louder than ever!) and she’s even lost a wee bit of weight from running around all day. Her coat’s actually casting less, which is amazing! She must be feeling better, too, but she obviously can’t tell me that in English. I make no claims about her not being able to understand the question, however, if I were to ask her.

I know it was a rash decision, to come back here, and I know it’s probably going to be tough on Mum, Dad and I until I move back out again in all sorts of ways, but right now, I’m just chilling out and relaxing, because I don’t have the real responsibilities on my shoulder any more. I can start to truly focus on taking care of myself again soon.

There was a promised weigh-in, mid-month, but I probably won’t cash in that rain check. More than likely, I’ll just wait until the start of August to weigh-in again, because I don’t want to kill this feeling, ha!

I don’t feel like I’ve gained or lost any weight since the start of the month, but since I’m living upstairs in the house, I’d say I’m actually getting more exercise now than I was in the flat. I’m climbing the stairs a few times a day here, where I was only climbing the stairs a few times a week, if at all, in the flat.

Surely that’ll end up counting in my favour, when I return to the gym and a healthier lifestyle. It’s how I’ll be able to judge, along with my clothes fit, my health’s improvement.

For right now, however, I’ll just continue feeling better and better, thanks. I don’t particularly like feeling so stressed that I get suicidal.

I’ll take life with my parents anyday, over death because I can’t afford to eat because I don’t get enough money to due to stupid chronic unemployment, thanks.

I got the biggest things moved into Mum and Dad’s on Monday. Bed, wardrobe, chest of drawers, etc. Flopped into my bed on Monday night and I don’t think I’ve slept so soundly since the time I was in Florida with my family as a teenager, when we got lost coming back to Clearwater from one of the parks and spent four hours driving around aimlessly before booking into a hotel/motel thing after midnight.

Exhausted didn’t even cover how I felt. I’d had to assemble a new desk, and the goddamn thing weighed probably, overall, the same as a “normal” adult female, all told. I actually had to get Mum’s help at one point. The instruction book says it only requires one person to put it together. But the instructions also say that you need allen keys when you don’t, and at no point do they say that you need a hammer, when you actually do.

Oh, and they were 14 pages long.


But I’ve got a decent desk that will hopefully last me for forever.

And I’m back in my old bedroom.

FATGIRLslim | In Which Tracy Is Glad To Be Moving Out

Now, that looks sort-of familiar, for long-time readers of FATGIRLslim, right?

Yeah, it really is my old bedroom. Mum actually decorated it while it was the “spare room”, so now it’s got a feature wall of cream with red flowers and silver stalks, and the rest of the walls are just wallpapered in… wheat-coloured? I think. It’s too wheat-y to be cream. I’m personally not a fan. I miss my purple paint.

(I don’t miss the horrendous wallpaper that my paint was covering, mind you. Mum did the world a favour with that one.)

But the thing is, I got my stuff moved out on Monday, and there’s still a tonne of stuff in my flat, like my living room and kitchen stuff.

Stuff I need to throw out; stuff I need to bring down here just to throw up the loft and get it out of the way.

We went down on Tuesday night, Mum, Dad and I, and brought down some more stuff, so it’s not like it’s been three weeks I’ve been gone or anything.

But when I went down tonight to get some of the stuff out of my desk drawers and etc, I honestly thought I’d walked into the wrong block of flats.

FATGIRLslim | In Which Tracy Is Glad She's Moving Out: GRAFFITI

To say that I’m glad I’m moving out, or have already sort of moved out, is an understatement. I’ve lived in that block of flat for two and a half years now, and in the past 7 months, it’s just gone downhill so quickly it’s like whiplash.

And even worse than that? That’s not the only door that’s been vandalised. That door belongs to the guy whose girlfriend just gave birth. He was an “Orangeman”, which may or may not have something to do with the graffiti. I don’t claim to know. But they vandalised the door of the lady who lives in Number 3, too, who is, if I remember, in her 80s.

And if they know who lives/lived in Number 4, then they know fine well who lives in Number 3, and in that case, they’re a bunch of heartless motherfucking cunting spineless bastards, and I hope they rot in hell.

I honestly thought that the druggies’ blood I had to clean up was bad, but now we have people actively defacing the flats?

I’m sorry, but no.

I’m glad I’m moving out.

I’m glad my stuff’s gone already.

I’m glad that since I’ve been at my parents’ place, that I’ve felt calmer, and less stressed, and not worried that someone’s going to attempt to break in and kill my cat or burn my house down while I’m out.

Two and a half years ago, I didn’t have to worry about any of that crap. Two and a half years ago, my block of flats was the only block in that godforsaken scheme that DIDN’T have to worry about any of that crap, because the residents had apparently argued with the council to eject everyone who had been causing trouble.

That’s how I got the flat. Because it was a “sensitive letting” because of the elderly people in the houses, who wanted someone quiet and kind of… y’know. Sane.

And then they let in Jay (who’s a lovely guy when you get to know him and get past all the crazy! He’s just… into bad stuff, y’know? :/) and the people in Number 4, who kept on having loud parties and stuff (but then, the second that his missus gave birth, he wasn’t going to stand for any of that noise or parties or any of that… the kind of stuff he’d been CONTRIBUTING TO FOR THE PAST YEAR AND A HALF, THE FUCKING FUCKER.) and when the people below me, who had been having parties until 4am finally left, they (Number 7′s a privately-owned flat, not a council-owned flat) rented the flat out again … to people who had RAUCOUSLY loud sex, parties that lasted until only 3am, and screamed at football matches when they weren’t having sex or a party.

So yes.

To say that I’m glad I’m moving out is an understatement.

Kind of like saying that Hitler was a little bit of a douchebag.

Okay, so, today’s the 30th of the month. What does that mean?

It means that tomorrow’s weigh-in day.


No, it doesn’t!

I know that there have been some months, especially recently since I’ve changed to monthly weigh-ins, where my weigh-ins have been late by a day or two, but I don’t think I’ve straight-up just never had one, except for those times where, y’know… I’d just disappeared.

But I’m not disappearing. I’m just in the middle of this move and don’t want to know what eating cereal for two of my meals a day is doing to my weight, to be perfectly honest.

I’ll do a weigh-in when I get moved back into Mum and Dad’s house, and get the scales re-situated again, because they’re going to be back on a (very thin) carpet again, which I know is going to affect the weigh-ins, but as the entire house minus the bathroom and kitchen are carpeted (and neither the bathroom nor the kitchen are good for weighing in naked and housing the scales permanently…) then my bedroom’s the only decent place to keep my scales. It’s where I used to keep them, anyway!

But for right now, I’m cashing in a rain check, and picking up my weigh-in in about a fortnight when I’m settled down again. And not eating cereal for my dinner.

You can tell something’s going on – or going wrong! – when it takes ten days between blog posts.

I’m moving house.

FATGIRLslim | In Which Tracy's Moving House

It’s been two and a half years in my wee flat, and I’m moving on! I’m getting out of what has become my own personal little private hellhole, thanks to neighbours that won’t CLEAN THEIR FLOOR OF THE FLATS and who won’t stop stinking the place up; neighbours that I’m friends with who have other “friends” who insist on BREAKING INTO THE BLOCK BY KICKING THE BACK DOOR DOWN (and then putting my friend in hospital for a month and a half – he’s also moved out!); and the fact that I’ve been my own worst enemy since I’ve been here.

Having the shops right across the road was supposed to be convenient for bread and milk, not for my cravings. But I haven’t been able to control my cravings at all.

So the house I’m going to does have a wee general store at the end of the road, but it’s further than the Co-Operative is from here, so I’ll probably be less likely to run out if it’s too hot, too cold, raining, dull, windy, etc.

Where am I going?

I’m going back to my parents’ place for a while.

I know a lot of people will see this as a step back, but I don’t. My parents have not only been amazingly supportive while I’ve been living on my own (I can’t being to tell you how many times they’ve covered my ass for a few days when I’ve accidentally overdrawn my bank account), but after two and a half years of freedom, they’re also supportive enough to take me back until I get myself back on my feet again, mentally, physically and pecuniarily.

So don’t worry about me if I go dark for the next two weeks. I’m just dragging my butt back to Mum and Dad’s place, with Little Miss Kittles in tow. It’s going to be fun, watching her become an outdoor cat.

Birds of Hamilton, beware!

There are two things I am exceptionally glad of, given my size.

One: my face isn’t too huge, and I wasn’t burdened with a massive double-chin. It’s big, but not big big. I’m vain enough as is. Anything bigger, and I can’t imagine how frustrated I’d be with myself.

Two: my hands aren’t as big as I’ve seen on other girls my size.

Now, I know these are things I shouldn’t be comparing or even thinking about, because bodies are extremely personal things, and how our weight decides to spread out is its own decision (and our genes, or something), but I’ve always really kind of liked my hands. When I was in high school, I was trying to half self-teach myself the piano, and half trying to nag my music teacher into teaching me. (He never did, haha. Poor Mr. Hewitt. If I ever, ever bumped into him again, I think I’d have a billion lifetimes’ worth of apologies for that poor man.)

But I did, however, play the viola, and the keyboard, of all things. I sang in the choir, and tried to play about a hundred other instruments, too.

I was pretty vain about my hands, since, playing the viola, that’s where people look. As I started gaining weight exponentially, I had waking nightmares of my hands being too fat for my fingers to fit on the strings properly. (It happened once when I was playing Mum’s guitar! By accident! Why wouldn’t it happen with my viola?)

But they’re okay.

FATGIRLslim | In Which Fatso Is Swelling Up

They’re still fat, but they could be worse. My ring finger’s a 9/10 depending on my water retention (I think that’s a R, in UK sizes, but I’ve worn an Avon ring, and an American ring, for so long, that I can’t remember actual UK sizes!), so they’re still pretty fat, compared to skinny little bits of girls, haha! But I think, in comparison to me and the rest of my body, they’re… kinda skinny looking?

Except, of course, for when I go walking.

In Which Fatso Is Swelling Up

When I go walking, I have this terrible habit of not raising my arms. They either hang by my side like dead weight, or I stick my thumbs in my pockets and mosey on home like that.

Tonight, I walked home with my arms swinging, and when I was almost home, I went to take my phone out of my pocket to change the song, when I felt like my hand was about to split in two.

FATGIRLslim | In Which Fatso Is Swelling Up


I flexed my fingers for five minutes, and it still didn’t help. Nothing changed until I got home and had moved my arms around for a while.

I know what causes it, of course. My arms are below the level of my heart, and the blood’s beating against gravity, and it results in a monstrosity of my hand swelling up like this:

FATGIRLslim | In Which Tracy Is Swelling Up

The only problem is that if I walk along holding onto my bag (BAG, not bra, Tracy) straps, then my butt becomes my centre of gravity. My butt is a big butt. I end up, like that, walking wherever my butt wants me to walk. Which usually means, “in a wiggly wee line all over the pavement, getting in everyone’s way.”

It’s not at all attractive. It makes it look like I’m drunk, or stoned.

I like moseying in the summer. I strut at night like I own the world, but walking home in the summer sun? Moseying’s just fine, ma’am.

I just hate the fact that I need to be paranoid that people are going to notice that I’m swelling up like a banker’s bonus. I should stop caring if people notice. The fact that I’m out walking should be awesome enough for me.

Swollen hands and all.

FATGIRLslim | Contrail Saltire
Contrail Saltire” by S. Rae, used by CC BY 2.0

I’m going to be talking about, and making some comparisons to, Scotland and our upcoming Scottish Independence Referendum in this post. That, in no way, means that I’m inviting political discussion in the comments. I am not going to tolerate anyone flaming my position on Independence, which is not even going to be discussed here. If you discuss politics in the comments, whether it’s accompanied by a comment about the post or not, I will edit it out (if I can), or delete it (if I can’t).


While I was walking home tonight, something occurred to me. With all this talk of politics recently, I’ve been kind of really stupid to not make it earlier, and to not make the comparison earlier.

There’s a Scottish Independence Referendum coming up in September: we get to vote if we want Independence (YES), or if we want to remain ruled by Westminster in London, and part of the United Kingdom (NO). This means there’ve been campaigns all over the place telling us a whole raft of things, from the YES! campaign, telling us how well we’ll do if we do decide to become independent, to the No Borders campaign, who seem to think that anyone from Scotland will be stranded outside of Scotland the second we declare our independence(?! as far as I could tell, anyway) and so on.

One thing that’s stuck in my mind is what’s come to be known as “Too Wee, Too Poor, Too Stupid“: the three reasons that Scotland couldn’t survive independence. It’s too small a country to survive on its own; it’s too poor a country to survive independence, and it’s too stupid a country to manage its own affairs and survive independence.

I’ve sort of realised that I’ve been waging the same campaign against myself for years, now:

Too Fat, Too Ugly, Too Stupid

Too Fat

I use it as excuse, when it’s convenient to do so, but it’s also become a crutch: I can’t do that, because I’m too fat to do that. It gets me out of stuff that I’m terrified of doing. Meeting new people. Meeting old people. Meeting anyone.

It ties in nicely with too ugly, sometimes, when it comes down to friendships/relationships/jobs, because being too fat and too ugly is excellent! I don’t have to worry about making friends with people, because they’ll never want to be friends with me because I’m fat and ugly!

Paranoia? I don’t know. I am fat, but not everyone’s a bastard. People are friends with other fat people; fat isn’t a disease, and it’s certainly not a jail sentence where people and friendships are concerned, so why am I locking myself up at home over it?

(Other than the obvious fact that it’s just easier, in a general sense of being alone, if we ignore the loneliness and all the emotional pain and stuff that comes along with that, that causes the horrid pain cycle eating crap etc…)

What I mean is: not everyone thinks the way I think. I hate my fat. It physically disgusts me. It makes me hate myself. And I don’t see why/how anyone else could just look past it and ignore it.

Too Ugly

There are few and far between times when I’ve ever felt pretty. I don’t think I’ve ever felt beautiful. If I’ve ever been asked to describe myself, the words “fat” and “ugly” and “disgusting” have always been used.

Mum and Dad tell me that I’m beautiful and pretty, but they’re my parents; they kind of have to tell me that. It’s in their job description.

But hand-in-hand with hating my fat, I just can’t find myself pretty, or attractive, at all, because I look at my face, but I don’t see myself. I see my double chin and the scars from scratching at the hairs on my chin until I’ve bled. I see the stupid bloomin’ adult acne that makes my cheeks blotchy.

I see the way my low-hanging belly makes it look as if my hips are thirty inches high. The way my belly button’s about six inches too low. I see the dimples and the imperfections and the way my boobs hang down and the way the skin’s all stretched and red underneath.

The only thing I’ve ever considered beautiful about my body, is the line of muscle in my calf. Although my legs are fat, the muscle can be pretty sharply defined at the sides, depending on what I’ve been up to (long walk, dancing, etc), and I like that. I love the beauty of it; it’s the same as when I was building up the muscles in my arms. They’re still there, kind of, the bicep muscles, just not quite as defined.

But mostly, I see fat. I don’t see beautiful curves like I adore on a woman’s body; I don’t see the beautiful arch that I should have at the small of my back, because I don’t have one. The small of my back has been taken over by the top of my fat ass.

Too Stupid

The annoying thing is that I know I’m far from too stupid to do many things. It’s just that I’ve gotten into this mindset of being, as I’ve come to calling myself, this unemployed bum extraordinaire. I’m not just unemployed. I’m amazingly unemployed. I’ve been so amazingly unemployed I’ve been unemployed for five fucking years this year, and I’ve only been working since I was 17. That’s nine years I’ve been working; I spent two of them in college, and a year and a half in America. Extraordinaire just seems appropriate.

I know I’m also not stupid in the “conventional” sense of being stupid, or of what we think of when we say someone’s stupid. It’s just that I… uh. I have no common sense, sometimes. I blame my Ariesness. I’m rash and impulsive. And kind of an idiot.

And I do things like the above.

Like telling myself I’m too fat, and too ugly, and too stupid.

Why do I need to wait until I’ve lost weight to do stuff? I know there’s obviously some stuff that’ll need to wait, like going on a rollercoaster again, or being able to take driving lessons (finding a car that I’ll fit behind the wheel is difficult!), but I’m putting my life off for this.

And it is, let’s face it, stupid. It’s the one thing that I’ll allow, that yes, I’m stupid. I’m a complete fucking idiot in that way.

Too Stubborn

But let’s face it:

My body is a fucking marvel.

I’ve gone beyond 400lbs, almost to 450lbs, and I was still standing… even if it was only for 15 minutes at a time.

I was walking home tonight, and my back starting properly hurting on the walk, so I had to take the short way home instead of the long way. The difference? It was a 25-minute walk instead of a 30-minute walk. My painkillers kicked in properly as I was reaching home.

I put my body through the wringer, and then I bitch and complain about it being fat and ugly and disgusting when I’m obviously not doing enough to change it!

Can we see the problem here?!

I’m mentally screaming at myself right now, trust me. This isn’t a new revelation. I’ve been at this for more than ten years now, but I’m still as hard on myself as ever. The wicked cycle never stops, no matter what I’m doing or how I’m eating. Even getting to my lowest weight two years ago, I was getting excited about what was happening to my body, but I was still looking at myself and thinking:

Jesus Christ, Tracy, you’re so fat and disgusting, even after losing 100lbs. What’s wrong with you?!

I don’t honestly think that I’ll be able to properly get my head around losing weight until I get my head around the fact that I am not fat. Fat is something that can be shed, like snakes shed their skin. It’s not permanent, and I need to stop treating it that way. I won’t always feel like this, especially if I stop treating myself like the world’s worst person.

So I need to ask:

Have you ever had this problem? Have you ever had to learn how to love yourself? And if you have, how did you do it?

I’m giving y’all plenty of advance warning: there is a photo of my exceptionally gnarly-looking mutant toe in this post. I’ve put it under a “read more” cut on the website, but I don’t think that RSS feeds get that benefit of that.

Read at your own risk. The photo is right at the bottom of the post, so you can read the text safely.

In Which Tracy Has A Mutant Fungal Toenail

Anyone who’s been reading FATGIRLslim for any amount of time should have heard me made mention of my “mutant leg“.

If you haven’t been here that long, or have never heard me mention it, then read this, and then scurry on back. :)

I’m pretty sure that the problem with my toenail is directly related to the problem with that infection. I’ve been trying to get rid of the toenail infection for almost two and a half years now. I spent a year coating it with this weird fungal nail polish, then a year (and a half?) on anti-fungal tablets (NON-COATED TABLETS. URGH! Why do non-coated tablets still exist?!) and now I’ve spent another two or three months using the nail polish again… with about a six month gap between the tablets and the nail polish.

I thought I’d give it a short rest and see if it was growing out any, but it wasn’t, so, last month or the month before, I took a clipping of my toenail into Dr. David and he sent it off to be tested.

Of course, it grew up some fungal cultures or whatever those wee tests actually do (I personally love to think that they grew a mushroom out of my toenail clippings, but that’s just me…) and so I got a new prescription. I don’t know what it is; I haven’t actually picked it up yet.

Last week, while I was heading into my bedroom, I managed to kick my bedroom doorframe. With the force I kicked it, I’m damn lucky I didn’t break my toe. After I’d finished screaming every swear word I know up to the ceiling while I hobbled about, I looked down at my toe to make sure that there was no blood or anything and that it wasn’t grossly disfigured any more than it already is.

Yeah, it was. Of course it was.

It had split quite neatly down the middle, between the fungal toenail and the healthy toenail, and had stopped right near the middle of my toenail.

Awesome, I thought to myself sarcastically.

I took my nail clippers and the cheap pair of tweezers that I tend to leave in the bathroom for plucking my beard hairs and sat down on my bed, and clipped my toenail.

It promptly broke away. And crumbled. It was so gross, you can’t even imagine. I literally sat with my nail clippers and tweezers and cut my toenail away and then dug into it, pulling bits of the fungal toenail away, and it was actually coming away from the nail bed.

Yet none of it was painful. It’s like the nail bed’s dead, like on my other foot. (I had problems with ingrown toenails on both feet when I was younger; my right big toenail was removed entirely. My left big toenail had both sides removed.) It’s really sensitive to the touch, like when you’ve had your fingernails long for a really long time and cut them down to the quick and then all that skin at the fingertip is exposed to touch for the first time in ages.

I made an appointment with Dr. David, because to be honest, after this long, I’d rather just get the toenail removed entirely.

Unfortunately, he said that wasn’t an option. :( I mean, I love Dr. David – he’s been absolutely fabulous where my back pain’s concerned, but this has been a serious pain the past few years. I can’t even wear open-toed/sandal type shoes now without serious paranoia that people are going to see my gross toe and judge me. Like I didn’t have enough trouble with just my weight and my hirsutism, now I have my mutant leg scar and occasional spots in that vicinity, plus some adult acne (yes, I have adult acne! FUN!) and a mutant toenail to make me paranoid.

So now I have another prescription for a cream to rub into the toenail bed, and Dr. David wants me to remove as much of the infection as I can, myself, with the instructions to “stop when it hurts”.

I’m really wishing I’d gotten this toenail completely removed when I was in high school, now. Stupid toenail.

And for those of you who want to see it, here you are! My mutant toenail…


Read More →

-0.1lbs since Jan 15 2014

I really don’t understand how I can have a weigh-in like this, I really don’t.

Despite the fact that last month started with a break-up, a night of getting drunk on Pepsi Max, Captain Morgan’s Rum and lime juice, eating ice cream, Doritos and a bar of Chunky Kit Kat with Peanut Butter and watching terrible movies and has seemingly continued in the same sort of fashion minus the alcohol, and replacing the terrible movies with video games for the whole month, I’ve still somehow lost 0.2lbs?

I don’t get it.

I mean, to be perfectly honest, this month has been lousy. I said I was going to pick myself up after the break-up, and I basically haven’t. To be perfectly, perfectly honest, I could happily go to the shop and buy enough alcohol to drink myself into an alcoholic stupor, buy enough food to eat myself to death, and just not move off of the couch ever again.

And I wouldn’t care.

So what makes me get up off the couch every so often to do things like sleep, and shower, and brush my teeth and occasionally do things like make actual food?

I don’t know.

Knowing that the start of May was probably the actual Seriously For Really Real The End Of It This Time. Not like that first time we broke up. That first time we broke up, I emailed him the day after, I think, and said something like, “I can’t imagine my life without you in any way, shape or form, so we need to keep in contact, okay?”

I haven’t actually emailed him yet. To say anything. I don’t know what I’d say, if I didn’t break down crying and begging him to rethink everything.

And that’s kinda pathetic, so.

So I won’t email him yet.

I’m trying to do a whole moving-on thing. Applying for more jobs. Even jobs that are out of my comfort zone, and literally out of my comfort zone, as in, they’d require me to move across the country. I’m trying to make friends – actual, adult friends – and pretty much failing miserably.

My couch is very comfortable. Minecraft is pretty addictive right now, what can I say? My best friend and I have got a whole Minecraft-while-on-Skype-voice-call thing going on, and that’s far better than trying to talk to people who scare me, or email ex-boyfriends who break my heart twice in a lifetime.

I’m not even saying that sarcastically.

And if nothing else, at least when I’m sitting on Minecraft, I’m not sitting eating junk. Neither Cola nor I can stand the sound of other people’s chewing. So we only eat when we’re not on the phone with one another.

That’s gotta be good for losing weight, right?