At least I think I am. I've been afraid to step on that scale. Not really in denial; I can tell by how my clothes are fitting. Another couple pounds and I won't be able to wear my last fitting pair of black jeans.
And I don't know if it is the weight, or all the emotions I'm experiencing lately (between my mother, my workaholic honey, my aging Westie, ever-present money worries and now - AND NOW, another set of good friends leaving the state (yes, Miss T - I'm talking about YOU), but I'm tired. Just tired. Every afternoon I feel like I need a nap. I haven't had that feeling since I've dropped all this weight - that feeling is a fat girl feeling. And I don't like it.
I am eating constantly, it seems. And I see the portions are getting bigger. Just a month ago, I couldn't finish half a Panera sandwich; I had to take one of the slices of bread off and still could only eat maybe two-thirds of it.
I just now finished a whole half. Without realizing that I forgot to take the top slice off.
I start off each and every single day with new resolve. It doesn't last much past mid-morning.
I really didn't think I'd become a statistic. Looks like I'm heading that way. I wonder if the good surgeon would consider redoing something in there. Although, I would just end up right back where I am now. I gotta fix whatever it is in my head that's causing me to selfdestruct myself.