I have lost 4 lbs since my last post — less than a week ago.
I should be ecstatic. I’m not. I feel like I’m dying, not dieting.
Totally depressed.
Feeling worthless.
It’s not like I’m not eating. I am.
Maybe I am eating the wrong foods.
Maybe the finality of leaving NY one last time last week has sunk in.
I am almost 72, and I feel like a failure.
Even though I have now lost almost 30 lbs since mid February, I feel like I look like a failure, too.
A porky old loser who lives in Florida.
It’s not an abstraction.
I am experiencing it.
It is real.
Yet I have to continue being relentless, the same frame of mind I adopted at the end of April, when emptying out my late Mum’s house in preparation for its sale — except now I need to transfer it to losing weight.
I have been struggling since I came back from NY.
I thought last night I was dying. Literally.
I was having bad dreams, about secret drinking, and losing the title to some house I have just bought.
My chest felt constricted.
My left arm felt numb.
I thought I was having a heart attack or a stroke.
But I wasn’t.
I took my blood pressure.
I was fine.
It was just the rage of my old self refusing to go down quietly.
The one that threw away so many chances in life because that is was it loves to do.
Vast pieces of my past immersed in globs of killer lipids are circling down the shower drain.
And the old loser me is enraged at this.
It is striking back.
It is saying: wait, you, carrying a healthy, normal load?
Can’t have that.
You have to hold on to the past.
Let’s make you think you’re killing yourself.
It is almost 7am.
Today is a new day.
Time to snap out of the blues and get on with it.
Time to take a shave and shower and walk the dog.
Depression or no depression, I am going to do this thing.
I intend on dropping to 235 lbs by sometime in late June.
And finally, after years of being an unhealthy, unhappy, fat old man, I will cease being obese.
I refuse to let that other me — the one that resents everything, can’t deal with change, and is simmering with rage at not having even come close to fulfilling the expectations I had of myself in my early 20s — prevail.
For someone like me, being fat is just the physical manifestation of throwing in the towel.
These days of late, the only thing I am prepared to throw away is that disgusting visceral fat in my stomach and those repulsoidal moobs.
Time to get cracking on it, son.
Get off your ass, and do some crunches while you’re at it.
Leaving Amerika 