A picture is worth a thousand calories.

Note to self: Never take up Clowning.

That said, here is the sad state of the carcass I call my body. This is post-double mastectomy (Thank you Breast Cancer!) so all I'm sporting across the chest is a number of heinous scars and some extra weird tissue. Frankenboobs is how I refer to my chesticle area now. No other word comes close to fitting.

Abdominal maladies have caused my already ample gut to swell to idiotic proportions. It looks as though I've swallowed a foursquare ball. My skin is pallid and sallow. My neck has become part of my chest and back, therefore it does not exist. My legs have wasted away making me look like a keg on sticks. Lumpy crooked sticks at that. I'm wondering now if I don't have Rickets as well. (note to self: call doc tomorrow about possible Rickets.)

My arms, oh my arms. Great flabby stacks of hanging meat. My upper arms have been affected by lymphatic fluid from the surgeries. MANY surgeries I might add, that also affected lymphatic issues in my abdomen and groin. My crotch area looks as though I've padded it, as the gentlemen did in the 18th century to advertise their manhood and prowess. I'm only advertising that my vagina is morbidly obese, and it's got an ass to match.

Now in the other photos, which are recent, my butt doesn't look as bad as it should because one's eye is drawn to the obscenity of the giant round belly, but take my word for it, my ass is abominable. Better yet, take a gander at the photo on the left and tell me that isn't the goofiest backyard you've ever seen. Granted, I chose the most unflattering clothes for this fashion layout, but still, you can see how flat my ass is from countless months in hospital beds, my own bed and my couch. Sitting, eating, shuffling around, basically, it deflated from it's former round firm glory to this sad dimply thing that when you unwrap it resembles a giant boiled ham.

Now we've seen the sad state of my carcass. This is a reality check for me and a jumping off point to re-claim my former life. The life I had before Cancer, Multiple Sclerosis, Irritable Bowel Syndrome, Depression, and God I hate to say this because I really hate psycho babble, but "emotional eating".

The phrase "emotional eating" doesn't even begin to really address my relationship with food. Food is the enemy and the best friend. It can be the healer and the disease. Food sates, fulfills. Food is guilt and anger. At times food delays tears. Other times food is the glue that holds one together for another five minutes in an otherwise bleak situation. Food dulls pain. But food is NOT my problem. Food is NOT my solution. I know this like I know the earth turns on it's axis and that the sun will rise in the east. Food, as much as I'd like to make it so, is not the villain in my life.

I am.

And the only one who can change that is me. It's time for me to be my own hero again. I was my own hero when I battled Cancer. Now I have another battle to wage, and I think I'm finally ready to do it.

So here goes. I'm terrified of being so open and honest (even though I'm incognito), but excited about the journey of coming back to my former self--sans breasts. My former healthy, robust, muscular, lithe, graceful, joyful dancing self.

Today's measurements:

Weight: 224 lbs (biggest I've ever been. horrid)

Waist: 49"

Hips: 48.5"

Bra Line: 42"

Rt. Thigh: 26.5"

Lt. Thigh: 26"

Neck: 16.5"

Upper Rt. Arm: 15.5"

Upper Lt. Arm: 16"

Rt. Calf: 15.5"

Lt. Calf: 16"

I've never measured myself before. I rarely weighed myself before all of this. I know that at my height, 5'7", I am very comfortable between 135 and 140--if I'm very fit. That's 89 lbs. to lose.

Holy Friggin' Crap. I have a feeling I'm about to experience a level of hell Dante could only imagine and never quite put on paper or canvas. Oh well. Time for bravery and action not cowardice and pussiness! No pussies here! Oy! Oy! Oy! Time to kick some ass. Some really fat ass.

But first: a snack for the road.