I’ll be honest with you. Today would be one of those days where I could so easily give all this effort and hard work up. No exercise, full on cake and sugar, the works. I’d be happy to just sit back and forget the goals I have set, and overlook the mental fortitude. The fact I can sit here knowing that when this post is done I’ll be walking to the Gym is testament to how far I’ve come in what is quite a short space of time: I only started the serious exercise push in September, after all.

The fact I went out in a dress yesterday, in public with bare legs? That’s a different issue entirely.


I think this is probably the larger step forward: my body issues are well known and mostly internalised, but being confident about myself has always been a bit of a thing. There are days, sure, when I can feel great and hugely relaxed, but mostly I’ll hide myself (at present) in leggings and a t-shirt. Except here I am, IN SHORTS, which are normally reserved for holidays where there’s no chance anyone I know will see me. It isn’t just the pear shape, the long body and short legs that is at issue. It is this basic belief that I’m just not happy as I am. For so very long I just couldn’t even think about it, the idea made me ill. Now, there’s a simple reassurance that amazingly? I’m comfortable.

Where on earth did this come from?


Then there’s the fact the last time I wore make up was for a TV interview somewhere in the mid 1990’s. Oddly, in that respect I have absolutely no desire to hide at all, and the juxtaposition of this with my body issues is… well, worth some research. Maybe its because I have other stuff to worry about with more significance. However, it is more likely to be the opposite, I suppose. Having stopped giving a fuck about a great many things when it became apparent there wasn’t enough time for such stupid? Everything has shifted. It’s making my writing more honest too, which is something I may never actually be able to thank myself enough for. After all, I published a poem today. Actual rhyming couplets.

Writing is fucking hard people. If you can do it without thinking, you’re monumentally clever.


I like the idea of setting mental fires under myself. Then I can’t stop moving and have to keep on my toes. The next stage of course, once I hit my target weight and have only maintenance to worry about? What do I do about my residual self-image?

I think maybe I should worry about that only when I get there.