reality check

I visited the doctor today. About a month or so ago, I went to her, bemoaning the condition of my skin. I'm 31, I said. This shouldn't be an issue anymore. She agreed and sent me for blood tests and an ultrasound. She wanted to check if I had poly-cystic ovaries. It made sense, after all - I have bad skin, irregular periods, unexplained lower abdominal pain and I'm overweight. All tests, however, came back negative. I'm in perfect health (well, apart from being fat) and that's a good thing but I have to admit that I was hoping to be diagnosed with PCO. Then I could say It's not my fault I'm fat and have bad skin. But I can't, it is my fault. The doctor wants me to go back in three months, having lost weight. Doing so, she says, will improve my skin and my metabolism.


And that's why I'm starting this blog. I need to document, record and be accountable. I'm writing it for myself but should anyone want to comment, follow, offer advice, then get on board. I need all the help I can get.


I took some photographs earlier. The 'before' photos. The scary type, the ones in underwear. Not able to hide a thing. A single fat roll, as it were.


The photos have made me sad. When did I let this happen? I was never overweight as a teen or even in my early 20s. I had a banging body, only I never appreciated it back then. I look at these photos with repulsion and regret. I should never have let it get to this point. But I did and I'm going to change.


I know what to do. I know which foods are good and which are not so good. I know I have to work off more kilojoules than I eat. I know I have to exercise at least three times a week. I know all this. I just have to do it. And now that it's doctor recommended - a reality check I never thought I would have - I have to do it. I don't have a choice.


Just to further insult to injury, I'm adding the repulsion and regret photos. Of course, my head has been cropped out. Identifying myself isn't necessary. Maybe further down the track, I will, but for now this is enough.

You see? Repulsion and regret. This should never have happened. The fat rolls, the bloated stomach, the massive tree trunk thighs covered in cellulite, the lopsided boobs what the fuck is up with that?


I weigh 90 kilograms. This is officially the heaviest I have ever been. I'm 170 centimeters tall. That gives me a BMI of 31 and that means borderline obese. That scares the crap out of me. 


And so it begins.