I’m “fine”

Warning:  I use the “F” word a lot in this posting. I use it a lot normally so if you know me, this won’t be a surprise, but this is just a word of caution to those who might not care for the word…

I think maybe I missed my “calling” and should have been an actress. I’m almost always pretending to be someone else; something else. It’s gotten to where I’m not even conscious of doing it most times.

You know that old joke that if a woman says she’s “fine”…


Yeah, that. But while that’s funny and is normally meant more to make fun of men’s inability to understand women, there’s also the more serious side to when a woman’s says she’s “fine” which is the completely opposite. She’s not fine. Not at all.


Some of the times, I really am fine. I’m okay. I’m good. Things are going okay, or well. And I’m okay. Sometimes.

But sometimes if I say “I’m fine” I’m really not. But I have this incessant need to not have everyone know it. No one. Not my therapist. Not my mother. I just don’t want to “share” because if I say how I really feel (which isn’t always clear to me either), it opens up everyone to have to discuss it. And there are times, most times, when I don’t want to discuss it. Talking about it doesn’t always makes me feel better. It really doesn’t; makes me feel worse.

Sometimes, for brief moments, I forget that I’m really not fine until something happens that reminds me. It could be weeks where I really am fine, but most times it’s mere hours, and if I’m lucky, a day or two.

I post jokes. I respond to posts with smiley face emojis. I try to mask everything I feel with jokes, sarcastic comments and sometimes even that helps me to forget. Briefly.

So I say “I’m fine” in hopes that people will just take the hint and move on. Some ask and don’t really care how you feel – it’s a nicety only. And there are those that ask because they really care, but I never really want to have the discussion with them about why I’m not fine.


Because most of the time we’ve already had the conversion. It’s like a fucking bad case of Déjà vu. Because most of the time the same fucking thing that had me upset before, is the same fucking thing that has me upset then.

My weight. My fucking weight.

That’s not to say that I don’t get upset or emotional about other things. I surely do. My job. My lack of a social life. My ridiculous feelings for someone I have zero chance with. One of my pets being sick. You know, the usual stuff in life that gets to you. That gets to everyone. Normal shit.

But my weight is not normal.

Worse is my apparent lack of ability to do anything about it. Sure, I do something for a day. A week. Maybe many weeks. I worked with a great woman who got me on track and then I went out on my own. At the time I was positive based on what I’d learned to strike out on my own and succeed. I even felt a weight lifted from my shoulders that I didn’t have to be accountable to someone else so I could avoid the anxiety of feeling I had to please her. But I didn’t keep succeeding. As with every other time in my life, I invariably fail.

Every. Fucking. Time. And you know what makes me more upset about that than anything is that I have no idea why. Why can’t I do it? Why can’t I get motivated? Why can’t I say motivated? Why do I give up? Why do I sabotage myself? I have NO idea. No one does.

There’s no one in the room with me. There’s no enabler here. It’s all on me. All. Of. It.

I’m not a stupid woman but I have to tell you, sometimes I feel like the most stupid woman on the planet.

A couple of months ago my therapist told me that if I can’t do this yet it’s because I haven’t hit rock bottom. And I have to tell you. I cried at that. Then I left her place and I cried. A lot. Because if this isn’t rock bottom, I don’t want to know what is.

And you know what happened? Nothing. Well, that’s not completely true. My weight did change. It went up!  As I write this, I am at the highest weight I have EVER been. Ever. Every time the scale goes up, I lose a bit more of sanity. My heart breaks a little more. My anxiety about my failures goes up and I wonder how long do I have left to live.

And it’s all on me.

And apparently the fact that I can barely move and that this summer the heat and humidity have made me feel more like a bigger blob of shit than any other time hasn’t been enough. Apparently that I can barely breath some days, and when I lay down to sleep hasn’t been enough. Apparently when I sweat just struggling to do the simplest things that most people don’t even think about hasn’t been enough. Nothing has been enough. And apparently this…

isn’t fucking rock bottom.

But let’s get this straight though – I’m not depressed. I’ve been depressed and this isn’t it. I’m not breaking down. I’m not depressed.

I’m angry. I’m pissed. And I’m upset with my life, how I’ve lived it (for the most part) until now and how I’ve let my health get so far out of control that I’m now struggling to just live.

So I act like I’m an Academy Award winner that everything is just super and most people, if not all, are none the wiser. And that has been just fine with me because otherwise it only reminds them, and me, of what a failure I have been up till now. And everyone will say to me…

“Oh Dani, you’re not a failure.”

“Just keep going”

“You can do this”

“Don’t give up”


And sometimes I believe it myself. But it doesn’t last.

I know losing weight is hard. I fucking know it. I’ve known it for 30 years. And it’s not getting easier and never will. And I wish I had some magic pill that would just fix the problem but there’s no such thing.

And the worst feeling is feeling like I can’t do this just because it’s hard. How do you not feel like a failure then? How do you not get to the point where you stop trying to do anything because if it’s hard you won’t do it?

How do you think you look to others, but most especially yourself, when you won’t even try to work hard to get what you want? I can’t stand people who float through life and expect they deserve everything they want. That they don’t have to work hard for it. But I don’t work on losing weight and I’m then surprised when I don’t and get mad at myself. There’s a word for that:


And you know what I dislike most of all? Hypocrites. Ergo, I don’t really like that I haven’t been able to walk the walk. To work hard to get what I want. It’s not even that I hate myself. I don’t think I really do. I hate what I’ve done, or not done. I hate my actions, and inactions. I hate that I can’t seem to do everything in my power to fix something that scares me to death. And may be the death of me, sooner rather than later.

Someone once told me that I won’t lose weight until I really want to. I argued that how could I not want to? How can I feel like this day in and day out and not want to lose weight? And I guess the answer is that I’m not willing to work hard enough. But I have no idea why.

So I’ve been concentrating on getting my book finished and published. So I can finally feel like I finishing something. I accomplished something. Anything. That I actually did something. And to be honest, I am grateful for the great things I have in my life. My mom, my family, my amazing friends. My cats. That I have a nice car, a roof over my head, money in the bank and a great paying job. I’m grateful for all of it.

But it’s not enough. Because none of that make me work hard to lose the weight. None of it.

It’s. All. On. Me. And we know how well that’s worked out so far.

I’m tired. Physically I’m exhausted. I can barely move. I can barely breath sometimes on really humid days. The pain in my feet get so bad some days that just walking to my car makes me cry. And mentally, I’m just trying to figure out what to do next.

So, friends…

I’m fine.











Tipping the Scales

Depending on who you speak to about weight loss, and everyone has an opinion, many will tell you to ignore what the scale says. Other will tell you that it’s important to weigh yourself – even every day.

From my experiences, there are three particular things that stand out to me regarding the scale:

  1. I don’t like to weigh myself every day. The reasoning, as told to me, is so you can see fluctuation from day to day to help you determine what you might have done “wrong” the day before. Ate something you shouldn’t have, for example. I don’t really subscribe to this method for two reasons. 1) You become obsessed with what it says – good or bad. 2) And if it’s bad, you stress and freak out because you had a gain. When just sometimes, the gain isn’t really anything you did wrong. But the perception is there. GAIN = FAIL
  2. Some have told me to ignore the scale all together. To go by, for example, how I feel or how my clothes fit. I can’t really subscribe to this either. I need some sort of tangible thing to tell me how I’m doing. For me to feel better, I have to drop quite a bit of weight because right now, I feel pretty sucky. As well, I wear all of my clothes at least 3 sizes too big because I can’t stand having fitted clothes against me; I feel like I’m suffocating. If you’ve been around me enough, you’ve seen me even yanking on those looser fitting clothes because I can’t stand the restrictions. But fear not – I will not be running around naked. Ever.
  3. The scale is an evil bitch who shows absolutely zero mercy to those of us who struggle at weight loss and look for some shred of hope that all of our sweat and tears – lot of tears – is for naught.

I think the key is to not let the scale define me. Yes they are just numbers, but important numbers, especially to someone who has to lose as much as I do. But I know I’m so much more than the numbers on the scale. I know I’m not that scale.


I’m a good person for the most part. I’m loyal to my family and friends to a fault. I do whatever I can to help and support them, even if sometimes I feel like I act selfishly. I feel passionately about things like protecting animals. I think I’m funny even if no one else does. I’m fascinated with history, learning about everything and anything. I love my cats. I love my mom. I miss my dad.

And I know I have to learn to love myself as much as I love them. After some conversations with my therapist, I’ve realized that I don’t hate myself. I hate what I let myself become, but I don’t hate myself. I’m just really disappointed in myself. There’s a difference.

So of course, anytime that I step on the scale and there is a gain – no matter how little – it does affect me. It hasn’t always been a good thing. I had a 3 pound weight gain one week and seriously lost my shit. And maybe people didn’t understand. Yes, a lot of people know the struggles of losing weight.

But when you have as much to lose as I do, a three pound gain screams EPIC FAIL because it could take weeks to lose it again and then you invariably feel like all you’ve lost is time.

After years of struggling, I still have those moments where I feel like I’m lost. Like I haven’t accomplished anyway. And it is very hard, as many of you know, to not feel like you’ve failed. To not feel like you’re going backwards.

I’ve been there. I have no doubt I’ll be there again. And I’ve said before, I wish I had some great pearls of wisdom on how to deal with it. It’s easy for someone to say, “Just forget it and move on.” It’s like also saying, “You know what to do, so just do it.”

EasyPeasyLogoTransparent Right?

In any case, the point to all this blabbering is that for the first time in nearly 2 months, the fucking scale is giving me some hope.

I’ve lost 2 pounds since last Sunday.

And I’m going to take that as a win because frankly, this summer has not only knocked me on my ass but it’s dragged me around behind its car for a few thousand miles. The weather has been brutal on me in so many ways. Water retention, swelling, heat rashes. It’s affected me physically to the point where there are days I can barely move. Sleeping is a luxury most nights. Case in point, I was awake till nearly 3am this morning because I couldn’t get comfortable. I couldn’t breath properly. It’s just been a nightmare.

Unfortunately, it’s only the beginning of August. This weather shit can go on for another month, or two. So I’m doing what I can to fight it but I honestly have to say that this is the worse summer for me that I can every remember.

When you have a hard time breathing just walking a short distance outside and your lungs feel like they have water in them – yeah…that’s not something I want to feel every again.

So I’m taking the 2 pound loss for the win because given the past six weeks or so, I deserve it.

So here’s to telling mother nature yet again – fuck you – and fighting on. Never giving up. And…


Blessings to all. Thank you for being with me on my journey.