I ate myself back into a size ten over the course of the past two weeks. They're not tight-fitting, but I definitely won't be needing to go buy those size eights that I've been eyeing up. I've since gotten myself back on track, and I'm proud of myself for doing so before I gained back everything I've worked so hard to lose. But I knew what I was doing when I gained these few pounds back, deep down anyway. I'm afraid that if I get to a point where I'm no longer considered fat, or even chubby, that I won't have any more excuses to avoid life.

I can't go out because I'm fat and have nothing to wear. I can't dress up for Halloween because all of the costumes are slutty, and fat girls, if they know any better, shouldn't do "slutty". I can't run any further than a quarter mile at a time because I'm fat. I can't get or keep a man because I'm fat. I can't have fun because I'm fat.

The excuses also cleverly disguise themselves as almost positives: I'm meant to be fat, look at the rest of my family. I love it when fat girls make my meals for me because they know what we like, and we know how to make it right. I'm so happy to be seeing average women in magazines, it makes me feel like I'm being represented. "Zero is not a size".

I'm torn between wanting to keep my excuses so that I'm not forced to deal with my ever growing social anxiety, and finally being free of the one thing that has consistently upset me the most throughout my life; my size. Most days, I'd rather just throw out an "I'm fat" than have to bother leaving the house, or even worse, bothering to figure out why I feel so horribly uncomfortable when I go out.

I guess I'm glad that fall/winter has arrived. That will give me time to think about what the hell is wrong with me, and why I (apparently) don't like nice things.