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?