I love the scene from Peter Pan where Peter, Wendy, Michael, and John are all elevated—literally and emotionally. Literally, they are flying. Emotionally, they are also soaring. By that act of flying, they are feeling free of their cares and woes. And I’m right there with them. I’m flying. I have only ninety-nine more pounds to lose.
I can’t think of anything but my new life before me. Today, I had a vivid picture come into my mind. I could see a baby being born. A baby who didn’t know anything. A baby who was going through much pain and discomfort and didn’t know of the opportunities and delights, the challenges and rewards to follow. A baby who didn’t know about rainbows, or the first daffodils of spring, or summer showers, or mountains, or little streams, or first loves, or true loves, or Ferris wheels, or ocean waves, or anything.
Then here was I, thirty-two years old, seeing myself as a baby coming into this world. Only I already knew of all those things, and of myriads more. Of love and hate. Happiness and despair. Spiritual fulfillment and emptiness of the soul. I had experienced most every emotion imaginable. Here was I, in the birth canal again, already possessing the wisdom of those thirty-two years of trial and error. Ready to be born again. Oh, how many get a second chance? How many can detect—let alone kill—their Goliath? I’m so lucky. I’m so thankful. For a long time, I’ve been in a black tunnel with only a little light at the end. A tunnel I constructed torturously, pound by pound, with the very fat that encloses my body and puts my soul into continuous misery and hopelessness.
My vision has broadened from that little flicker of light, that tiny drop of hope in an immense ocean of fear, discouragement, and failure. Now I look out at an ocean full of joy, hope, elation. Wave after wave of pleasurable new life flows over me. The more I lose, the farther I come out of that dark, narrow tunnel.
As I write in my diary, I feel myself being filled with thoughts that are more than mine. Perhaps I can be an answer to another’s prayer for help. I hope so. I hope my experience will be the beacon light for others who are suffering from this dread disease, this blight, this life-sucking monster.
My whole attitude has changed in the last five weeks. I am somebody. I am important. I am loved. I do have qualities and talents unique to me. The world is at my feet. I simply have to take the first step.
I love to write. As I do, I find bits and pieces of me expressing themselves, bits and pieces I didn’t know before. It’s fascinating. I like me. With each hour that I resist fattening things, I like me better… and the looks of me, too.
A funny thing happens whenever I discuss my weight with Allen. I subconsciously refer to my weight as if I were in the one-hundreds. I’ll mistakenly say, “Oh, Allen, I weigh only 144-133-124 pounds this morning.” Dear, sweet Al will always remind me, “You mean 244 or 233 or 224.” Somehow, though it’s been twelve years, my mind won’t, can’t, refuses to say any number in the two-hundreds. How dreadful it sounds. I am a skinny person trapped inside a fat body.
Today I sat in my car and buckled the seat belt. Can you imagine my delight when the tiniest adjustment allowed me to fasten it? Allen had driven the car last. He’d tightened the seat belt to his size. And, wow! It almost fit me. Now, I’m not saying it wasn’t snug. (Okay, it was tight!) But with only a half-inch adjustment, it closed.