I find myself in a comfortable position, these days; I’m managing to overcome things that have been issues in the past, like vacations, plateaus, frustration. It’s been nearly a year since I took the first hesitant steps toward changing my own fortune, and I’m thrilled to say that I’m still here, still working toward my goal, still accomplishing what I set forth to accomplish.

I’m glad I took the first step to work on myself. When I’m not treating myself well and trying to hide my head in the sand, I play any number of stupid head games, trying to convince myself that I feel better than I do. And I’m talking about feeling good mentally.

All of us have experienced disgust with ourselves at one point or another; perhaps over a poor decision, bad luck, or just plain giving up on ourselves. We all know it on one level or another; you can hardly be human and not experience self-doubt, self-loathing, or frustration at some point in your life.

And believe me — I’m human, on all those counts. When I am not taking an active part in my own health, I live in disgust and self-loathing. I feel like a slug, and mentally, I don’t feel like I’m in control of my own life. I don’t feel as if I deserve the respect or love of others if I can’t respect or even like myself. I don’t need for anyone to suggest that being fat is somehow a character flaw, when I live and breathe it every second of the day, feeling absolute regret at my fat reflection in the mirror, or yet another piece of clothing that doesn’t fit.

When I feel that way, even the smallest gestures can make me feel disparaged, even if that’s certainly not the intention.

For example, my mother will sometimes come up to me and pull down my shirt if there’s any skin showing in back; one of the curses of large women is the accidental clothing slips that happen when I sit down or shift around. When she poked my bare skin in fun, I feel absolutely mortified. And it’s such a small thing with absolutely no mean intent.

When I’m in that dark place, when I’m not moving forward toward a discernible goal, I’m hypersensitive to even the smallest perception that I’m not worthy — and I quickly believe it.

So, when I stepped the scales nearly a year ago, it was both an act of courage and an act to free my own brain from these kinds of thoughts.  But most of all, it was a gift to myself.

Am I still a big, fat woman? Yes, absolutely. But the difference is that I’m a big, fat woman that’s making progress toward health, that’s making the (albeit slow) effort to lose weight, and I’m strong enough mentally, now, that the judgments others may silently arrive at don’t bother me. Some random stranger’s assumption that I’m fat and therefore must not be doing anything other than shoveling food in my face means nothing to me, because of one simple fact: I know better.

I know better, and that speaks volumes. I no longer feel that gripping self-loathing because I took the first step, nearly a year ago, toward a goal, and I haven’t deviated from that goal. It seems surprising, now, to realize nearly a year has passed; and while I may be a slow loser, 52 pounds of me that existed a year ago is no longer there.

I’m in it for the long haul, my friends. Thanks for taking the journey with me. It’s my greatest wish to be writing words of even greater successes a year from now.