I can’t pinpoint when my weight issues truly began. That’s an interesting statement, I think, since I’m the one in this body and I of all people should be able to figure it out. I know that I became sensitive about my weight in high school, although looking back, I looked completely fine back then.

It’s only when I thumb through years of photos that I get a real sense of the vast fluctuations that I have forced my body to endure. I have photos of myself next to my beautiful niece in which I weighed more than 300 pounds. Photos where I smiled proudly into the camera after losing 125 pounds. Snapshots where I tried to hide myself in tent-like shirts as the weight began to return after my dad passed away. More photos looking good when I lost the weight once more. And most recently, photos of Bill and me at Christmas, again hiding in an oversized sweater.

I have always said that I do not have an eating disorder, I have disordered eating. I am an emotional eater, of that there can be no doubt, but I have a laser inside me. When I switch that beam to “on,” I focus on absolutely nothing but losing weight. And I do. It is only when the batteries run low, when the laser fades to a dim glow that only my cat can see, that I turn once again to food. I don’t want this to happen, but the emotions overpower the desire for healthy weight and soon the laser is completely dead and shoved into the back of the junk drawer.

I’m losing again now, back at my second home of Weight Watchers, back on the bandwagon, back to moving forward. I’m hoping this is the last time. I’m hoping the laser remains on and bright and able to guide me past the emotional landscape that I know lies ahead. And so I move onward. Ever Onward.


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