Humor is a coping mechanism for me. You could even call it a shield, used to deflect the self-disgust. Used to distract other people from my growing waistline. Used to convince myself they like me even though it’s obvious I don’t like myself very much right now.
Joking around fills this role for a lot of fat people. And yes, I call it like it is. Fat is fat. That’s part of the problem, everything is sugar coated. Literally and figuratively. But no joke can hide a triple chin. I’m not there yet, but easily could be after a few more rationalized, beer filled, wing nights.
So as I write with self-depricating humor and realization, it helps to work out my own feelings of dislike towards myself. To work out an honest realistic image of the consequences of my unhealthy behaviors and to SEE it in black and white.
To get my thoughts out of my head and have others read them. Respond to them. Relate to them.
And at some point, to be able to look back at how hopeless I was and simply laugh . . .