keep me thinking that we almost had it all.

I have a few emotional things to share today, so naturally I'm setting the tone with a bitter, angry, break-up song. Not the least bit applicable to this situation. But ima do it anyway because it's Celine. YOU CAN'T STOP ME.

First and foremost, exactly one year ago today I was laying in the innards of an MRI machine fighting back the tears (mostly because I was worried I had a brain tumor, but also because I was really sad about my weight). Those were scary days, my friends. Scary, scary days.

That day was horrible for one reason in particular: I had to be weighed, and no less than ten people saw my weight and repeated it out loud. On top of all the other stresses I encountered in this experience, I was swimming in incomprehension. How the fuck did I let it get that bad?

I still don't have an answer for that. People who have never struggled with their weight assume that fat people are lazy pigs, but even with a year's hindsight and sixty pounds lost I can't agree with that assessment of my life. Which, yet again, begs the question: How did I let it get that bad?

I had a beacon of hope throughout my horrible diagnosis experience knowing that we were set to travel to Las Vegas in less than two weeks from the onset of this series of events. I had a brand new, black sequined Calvin Klein skirt and two tickets to see Celine Dion perform at Caesar's Palace. I was convinced there was NOTHING in this world that could take away from the excitement that was constantly threatening to boil over the brim and explode from my body in uncontrollable fits of happiness.

Faster than I knew what was happening, it was the last night of our trip, the night we had dinner reservations at Mesa Grill and a date with Celine. I had my sequined skirt, brand new sandals, and perfectly manicured nails ready to take as many pictures as Caesar's would allow. I stood in front of the marquee, giant smile on my face, thinking to myself "you're a god damn rock star." I loved every picture and I was certain I would look back on this trip with the fondest of memories.

I look at those pictures now with sadness; mostly, I'm sad realizing how absolutely lost I was back then.

My whole life, I've made it a point not to define myself by my weight, because in all honesty... I am so much better than that. I watched my sister struggle through an eating disorder for most of my conscious life. The effects were profound: it caused my parents to almost divorce (twice), I have a poor relationship with food and a non-existent relationship with my sister.

On any given day, I know exactly how much I weigh. EXACTLY. This is the first time in my life I've had such a high degree of self-awareness, at least when it comes to my weight. It came as a surprise, however, to realize that this is the first time in my life that my self-consciousness has been suppressed to an almost undetectable level. I had been living as if not knowing my weight (the number) would mean that I wouldn't be aware of my weight (the size). I am not a number, I will not be defined by a number, I will not be controlled by a number.

My weight loss has been marked by a progression of comments from those closest to me: "how much have you lost?" from the curious coworker, "you look incredible!" from the impressed friend, "we're proud of you" from my ever-supportive parents. My epiphany came from the things that weren't said, the "what did you way before"s and the "shame on you for gaining all that weight"s. At the end of the day, it's not the number on the scale that matters, or the number on the tags of your clothes; instead, it's health, it's happiness, it's a general sense of well-being that brings meaning to life.

As I laid in the belly of the MRI, trying my hardest to keep still, I made promises to myself. A promise that I would never again have cake or ice cream or candy. A promise that no alcohol would graze my lips. A promise that breads, pastas, cheeses, and all those other wonderful "bad" foods would never reach my stomach. This time, I was going to lose the weight and do it right.

Most importantly, I made a promise to myself to get healthy.

I'm going to let you in on a little secret. I broke most of my own promises. I've boozed, caked, ice creamed, breaded, cheesed my way through this entire journey. Along the way, I've gained weight. I've had foods I knew I shouldn't have. I've had second helpings that I didn't even want. I stopped at the McDonald's drive-thru for ice cream that I didn't earn. Let me make one thing abundantly clear to you: none of this means I failed. Not a single thing.

June 13, 2011: 292.0 pounds. Sad panda.
June 13, 2012: 230.0 pounds. BAMF.

I'm still a good six weeks away from my next neuro appointment, but I have a gut feeling I'm going to get the news I've been hoping for. I just goes to show how far hard work, silent tears, and a steel resolve can take you.

Cheers to another year of life, and one of improving health.