I do. I just do. It is visceral, to my core. It is valid. It is trying. It is because I am what I made myself. I sit here unable to sleep, unable to be at ease, unable to find reprieve in anything at all.
I have always been big. Started big. Went obese. Then morbid. Then some more. Then some more. And then some more. But I was always happy throughout. I wasn't, but at least I wasn't unhappy. I was, but at least I wasn't resigned to my fate. I was, but I didn't have a reason. I did, but I had time to change. I did. Yet I did nothing, and maybe now I don't.
Every step taken, more so every literal step avoided, I made things worse. But none of them were visible and none of them came with a blinking flashing warning light. None of them made my metabolism slow down all of sudden. None of them turned up just one day and made me unable to climb stairs without huffing. None of them made me suddenly unappealing. Misshapen. Unsavory. Unlikeable. Unlovable. It was all a slow crawl towards literal death. Marching to the beat of my drum, a slow funeral march. Till I sit here, now, utterly disgusted in my own skin. I want to escape my own self.
I'm a great guy. I'm a dancer who has never danced. I'm a singer who has never uttered a word. An athlete, untested. The life of the party, uninvited. A lover, never touched. A sibling, unhugged. A son, unimpressive in my being. I can do all those things I have never done. They are there in my bones. I know that. But I have saddled myself with a carcass bloated and mangled. Unsightly at the best of times. Yet I persisted on the same path.
I have had many an epiphany. Some even recorded here and elsewhere. Every story, every occasion a turning point untaken. Every moment of sadness ignored, eclipsed by the next. Never changing. Always the same. Writing that I almost don't even want to finish this post. Who is it for? I've made other writings in hope, perhaps pretentiously, to help someone, anyone, in a small way. They see my struggle, see how I will use that moment as a catalyst for a change, and perhaps something in the offering spurs a change in someone else. I also write, I did, to have a digital marker that I can look back on and chart my success. But the change never comes. Action never actions. Not a solitary step, be it however simple in execution and outcome, ever undertaken. I have never done anything. Ever.
I've only made things worse. Sometimes I sit above myself, in third person, viewing myself. I don't like this avatar. I want to change it. I don't. Not that I can't, I don't. Every inaction is action. Every action is detrimental. I can actively see that. I can feel it. There was a time I felt normal. I remember being normal, I don't remember how it felt. So long it has been since then. I have every opportunity, facility, and aid, monetary or otherwise, available to me. At my disposal. I can reach out and begin at this very moment. But I haven't. I didn't. I fear I won't.
So where does that leave me? This is it is it? This. This. This self I have created for myself. This thing I have to live within. This jail I don't escape. This is the first time ever I have ever felt unhopeful. Ever. There was always tomorrow. And boy were there so many tomorrows. Have I used them all up? Are they done? Surely there is a finite amount this body can take before failing me. Before I fail it. I fear, for the first time in my life, of not seeing another hopeful tomorrow. What I will give to go back and change. To take action. To stop. To start. To do. And I wonder if I will even have the opportunity to mourn not taking action after this particular lowest of the low points. I hope to look back on this one, this post, this moment in time, and have it be the marker of change. I don't know how many posts like these are in my future without any radical change. I wonder. I fear. I'm awaiting.
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from loseit - Lose the Fat https://www.reddit.com/r/loseit/comments/15yws06/for_the_first_time_in_my_life_i_hate_myself_and/
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