I find it unfair that at the most unhappy time in my life, I also was the thinnest.

I am too thin in that picture. My boobs are only being buoyed up because I have employed the use of those silicone  inserts into my bra. (Side note: Those make excellent cat toys. I found that out the hard way.) My already pointy chin is exaggerated by my slightly emaciated face.  I could dry my jeans in the dryer and then put them on. People suggested perhaps I had a drug problem.  My exhusband said I should eat a sandwich.

And I loved it.

The thing is, it was easy. I was unhappy and I just plain didn’t want to eat. I subsisted mainly on anti-anxiety pills and Diet Coke (and Miller High Life).  Now that I’m happy and healthy and less full of indulgent depression, I can’t seem to stop eating. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?

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