These are my stretch marks. These are the scars that line my body.
I did not earn these by bringing a child into this world; I do not have a child.
These are a permanent reminder of the choices I’ve made. They line my arms for all the world to see.
Even if I were to lose all the weight, these scars would remain. I will be forever marked by my choice to treat my body poorly.
Choices I made before I knew the consequences, and once I knew the consequences I continued down the rabbit hole, believing I was too far from a comeback.
I put myself in this position.
I ate too much food. I chose not to exercise.
I blamed my metabolism.
I blamed my husband and my mother.
I blamed my body, something must be wrong for me to gain weight like this.
But I was wrong. I am wrong. I didn’t blame me.
I made the choices that led to where I am today; the actions I took have led to a twenty-one year old morbidly obese woman. A woman who is too scared to believe that it can change, too scared to admit that she was wrong, and too devastated to accept where her life has ended up.
My social life is all but non-existent. I choose to remain hidden from the world; immersing myself into books and movies where the heroine is beautiful, pretty and free.
My confidence has shrunk as my exterior ballooned.
It’s time to make a change.
Not for my husband, who so desperately wants a confident sexy wife back in his bed.
Not for my mother, whose heart is broken as her first-born child is losing a battle with obesity.
Not to improve my chances of employment or successfully carrying a baby.
Not for any external factor.
But for me.
Because these are my scars, and they tell the story of where I have been but they will not dictate where I am going.
The author of this post is known to Mamamia but has chosen to remain anonymous.
