It’s not about weight loss or writing or saving money. It’s about sustaining it all. I have faith that I can temporarily morph into a need, but there is no confidence in holding the shape. I am an imposter.

Shape-shifting, this weekend I moved from contented to confusion. I was the most me leaning against the stage watching a Japanese punk band. In so many circles my fat weighs heavily and I am certain to not get in the way—stay on the perimeter, but at shows I am upfront, guided by the music, whole.

But there is still the other—going to a Dining for Friends party—finding a corner seat behind a table. Walking to get a drink, aware of my size, the jiggling with each step, heart rate pacing, meaningless chat, and watching the clock.

There are times I have the courage, the calling, the knowledge of “this is who I am”. More often is the not knowing if I am discomforted out of fear, or is it loathing? I grasp at events, people, music, books— temporary glimpses of what I can’t sustain--to quilt together and hide reality. I want to blanket myself and suck it all in. I know happiness is something I’ve got to deal with on the inside first---progress ebbs and flows, moves to mania and back, becomes another goal for me to try to woo, pin down, carry.