For as long as I can remember, I have been overweight. It’s normal for people to be a little chubby before puberty. Unfortunately, I was still chubby after puberty hit. For as long as I can remember, I have always loved food. Having seconds and thirds at dinner was normal. Sneaking out of my room to raid the fridge at night was fun. Eating never seemed harmful growing up. Then I started having depression.

Now I was keenly aware of how I looked. Still, at that point, I felt like I could still lose weight and turn my life around. As I got older, I only got bigger. With my weight gain, my confidence diminished. While others were out on dates and having a life, I was hiding at home. I was ashamed of what I was doing to myself. The biggest problem was that I ate my feelings.

Any time I hated what I was becoming, I ate. My family has always known me as a fat person. When we go out to eat, I will eat my food. Then because they get to much, they would beg me to eat their food as well. “Don’t let it go to waste”, they would say. I remember the time my own brother called me the Human Garbage Disposal. It was true. I would just shove it down my gullet and then hate myself later.

Now I am turning thirty in a few months. I am over four hundred pounds. I have never been on a date. I have never had s**. My family has only lately started to really worry about me. I can’t lose the weight on my own anymore. I spent $30 on food for myself today. I didn’t need it all but I ate it anyway. I hate myself so much. I’m going to die of a heart attack one day and there’s nothing I can do about it.

I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be fat. I don’t want to be me.