I’ve always been overweight.

Fat, plus-sized, obese, pleasantly plump, big-boned, heavy, bbw, large and in charge…

You get the picture.

My parents were concerned. The kids teased me. One of my uncles enjoyed grabbing my fat roll. It was just something that I grew up knowing, that I wasn’t how I was supposed to be.

You know. Skinny.

I was at my heaviest, around 280 pounds, when I was still living with my ex (aka Douche Supreme.)

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I made this photo blurry for a reason.
We were in Amish country that day, with my mom and aunt. My daughter was still little. I was 25. This photo was taken when I was living in my own personal Twilight Zone and I gave absolutely no fucks about how much food I ate.

My ex called me a fat pig, so why not work hard to fit the bill?

Once I left him and started working full-time, I dropped about 20 pounds, but I was still really overweight. All of my jobs were physical labor and though I had fibro even back then, I never let it keep me down.

I dated plenty of men who didn’t seem to mind that I was a big girl. My husband actually prefers larger ladies.

But, it was still something that popped up once in a while, like when I contemplated wrapping myself in Saran Wrap so I could fit into my bridesmaid dress for my brothers wedding.

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Make sure to leave a breath-hole.
It wasn’t until 2009 when I joined a weight loss challenge at my old workplace that I was able to drop more. I lost 30 pounds total, but my team still came in fucking 2nd.

I didn’t care. I was so proud of myself and my new svelte bod.

I kept it off until 2011, when my mental health took its first real hit in the lady package. (Yes, us women have lady packages.)

The shrink even warned me that the Celexa was going to make me gain weight, but I shrugged. Whatever, man. I just didn’t want to be sad anymore.

So, I was back up again. Eventually, though, the medication proved worthless to me, so I switched to another one that didn’t cause weight gain, but also didn’t do much for my depression.

Ironically, when I was severely depressed back in 2015, I stopped eating. I had no interest in food whatsoever, but I was so close to being under the 200 mark!

That was probably the only benefit to being completely suicidal and freaked the fuck out.

Being diagnosed as a diabetic really made me change my tune. Now I eat smaller portions (usually) and limit my sugar intake. I drink a lot of water. I ping-pong between 210 and 220 now. I’m tall, so I carry it well. (I think.)

I have a belly, true. I like it. It’s soft and shit.

I have no ass or hips. My legs (although they are weak and hurt like a bastard) look pretty damn good if I do say so myself.

I can finally admit that I am happy enough with my body, which I know sounds weird in a world where being a chubby bumpkins is frowned upon.

There are worse things to be, like an asshole.

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