Designated Fat Girl Read Online Free

face, although that really was nothing new. He was concerned about me, and I’d spent much of the evening blaming him for something I knew good and well was all my fault. I’d taken the last two days of eating reasonably well and thrown them away as if they meant nothing.
But I’m going to start fresh tomorrow,
the little voice inside says, rather weakly. Tomorrow. Always tomorrow.
    After I clean up, I look at the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. I wish I could say the reflection of my almost three-hundred-pound frame is a shock, but it isn’t. I am long used to the grotesque figure I’ve become. My face is so swollen, it’s hard to recognize the person I was just a few short years ago. My skin is dry and scaly, my hair is lifeless and limp. And my stomach … I can’t look at it for more than a few seconds without forcing myself to look away, like a bright light that burns your eyes and leaves you seeing spots for hours. I look in the mirror and I see a monster—a hideous beast that has taken over my body and my life. I am too weak to fight him off. He hascontrol, and I am powerless to do anything about it. Eventually, I am sure, the beast will kill me.
    I go back to our room and quietly shut the door. I should go out and say goodnight to everyone, but I am too ashamed. I just want to go to sleep, to not hurt, if just for a few hours. I am never overweight in my dreams; I am thin and young and pretty. Self-hatred is nowhere to be found, and I retreat to that place whenever I can. It is my one escape, my chance to get out from under the death grip I feel most of the time.
    I change quickly, although it occurs to me the ritual is pretty silly. I take off my drab T-shirt and pants and put on a drabber T-shirt and shorts. No pretty lingerie, no cute cotton pajamas for me. As it is I’d die if anyone saw my bare legs in the shorts I wear to bed; I haven’t worn shorts or skirts in public for years.
    I turn out the lights and lie in bed, begging for sleep to come, but it eludes me. As silent tears slide down my face, I feel as though the grief will overtake me.
Please God,
I pray to myself.
Please help me. I don’t know how to stop this. I can’t do it alone. I need help. I feel like I’m going to die.
    My cries no longer want to be muted, and I roll over so that I can sob into my pillow. I think of how much time has been lost, how much of our lives have been ruined by this hideous disease. I think about the future, and I cry even harder. What could the coming years possibly hold for us? Children are out of the question; my doctor doubted I could even get pregnant. I’m too heavy. And even if I could conceive, the pregnancy would be too dangerous for me and for the baby. Wouldn’t my in-laws just love that? No, there are no kids in our future, not if I can’t get this problem under control. And I see no sign of mygetting a grip, despite the promises I made myself earlier. For the first time all night, I am being honest with myself. I am in a very sick place, and I know it. But I don’t know how to fix it. Really fix it, I mean. Not with deal making or grandiose, unrealistic plans. How can I finally fix
me?
    The tears let up. I get up to grab some tissue, maneuvering in the dark room over to the dresser. My purse on the floor catches my eye. Michael must have put it in here while I was in the bathroom. I wipe my face and blow my nose, suddenly remembering what’s inside my pocketbook. My pulse quickens a little. I grab my purse and climb back into bed.
I can get up early in the morning, before anyone else. I can walk on the beach, down to the pier and back. That’s got to be a couple of miles, right? Yes. Yes, I can do that in the morning, and then maybe I can do it in the evening, too. You know, really make a strong effort. Michael’s parents are bound to notice that. And Michael, too … he will be so proud of me.
I sniff away the tears as I open my purse and dig out the chocolate.
And