i lost fifteen pounds

By the way while you guys are typing away that I’m gonna die when I’m thirty here’s some of my fat as fuck family’s deaths:

- Grandma, died in her sleep, lived to be 70 years old
- Uncle Stinky, shanked to death in prison (47)
- Uncle Jesse, Suicide (50)
- Cousin Jeff, Shot by police (17)
- Aunt Clarice, Suicide (60)

Wow look at those old fat fucks who are way fatter than me and are also way older than me, man they sure did die of being fat. Pretty sure I won the genetic lottery.

Anyway losers I already lost fifteen pounds since October so quit your bitching, I’m gonna live longer than all your sorry asses anyway ✌️
- Eric


I can’t believe I’ve lost FIFTEEN (15!!! that’s 1-5!) pounds. I already feel like a different person. I pick up my fifteen pound cat and I can’t imagine having to lug all that weight around all day. No wonder everything always hurt. 

That said, 53 more pounds to go to hit the big 110. Back to my old weight. Hitting that weight will be the final nail in the coffin, burying the figments of the life that I once had. 

I’m running better. I’m sleeping better. My weird neurological problems are raising their ugly heads but it’s probably unrelated. My skin is looking better. And I’m so close to being out of the 160s FOREVER. Never again will I let me weight get this high. Constant vigilance. 


It’s Caesar Flickerman. And I can guess who his guest will be. Peeta’s physical transformation shocks me. The healthy clear-eyed boy I saw a few days ago has lost at least fifteen pounds and has developed a nervous tremor in his hands. They’ve got him groomed. But underneath the paint that cannot cover the bags under his eyes, and the fine clothes that cannot conceal the pain he feels when he moves, is a person badly damaged.

The year of my conception:
My father is pushing my mother off of the toilet and into the bathtub. She’s seven months pregnant and he’s three bottles of cough syrup into his two hundred-something night of “sobriety.
My first year:
My mother leaves my father. She and I hide in vans at her work when he comes to find us. She cries out of fear of evil taking her baby. Every night.
My second year:
My mother meets a man. He’s good to her. He makes far more than adequate amounts of money and doesn’t hit her.
My third year:
My mom marries this man. We move into our home. Four bedrooms, three bathrooms, and an office I’m not allowed in.
My sixth year:
I start seeing a therapist. I’m afraid to go with my dad, but I like visiting the dog, so I go anyway. Usually not without crying though. My Ritalin gets stuck in my throat when I take it.
My eighth year:
My mom has twins. They’re two months early and I don’t know why I can’t hold them, but they’re so small, I don’t think I would if I could.
My ninth year:My Mom has another baby. He’s on time and perfectly sized for holding. My step dad gets sick.
My tenth year:
I have a new school year starting, but my mother is crying the day of orientation. My step dad came out of remission and both twins are diagnosed with autism.
My eleventh year:
I learned a lot about tying knots. A noose is harder to tie then I thought though, and I guess it unraveled under the weight my mother suggest I lose.
My twelfth year:
Not eating carbs is hard at pizza parties. I’ve lost ten pounds though and my mom says I look great. I start taking longer in the bathroom after dinner. I have to let the water run so no one hears me throw up. My step dad dies in the back bedroom before school one morning. My aunt told me I wasn’t allowed to cry because he wasn’t my real father. I guess that’s okay. She wasn’t there when he cleaned my scraped knees and took me for ice cream. Who’s going to take me for ice cream?
My thirteenth year:
I diagnose myself with borderline personality disorder, depression, and anxiety. I refuse to take my Ritalin anymore until my mom takes me to a knew doctor. I start two new medications. I also find a way to cope. It’s always hot wearing long sleeves.
My fourteenth year:
I only buy hoodies. My mom says I’m wasting money and skinny jeans make my legs look fatter. I stop eating dinner.
My fifteenth year:
I meet a boy who would prefer to stay and smoke with his friends than walk me home. I walk myself home in the rain. I didn’t like him anyway.
My sixteenth year:
I go to live with my dad. My mom has too many rules and I don’t have friends. The neighbor boy who I’ve been friends with since I was five decides “no, please don’t” is an unacceptable answer to his proposal. He does this twice. I should have said yes. I come home with a blood stained skirt and bruises. I think I’ll tell my dad. I think, from what I’ve heard, that I’m supposed to tell someone. I guess the empty vodka bottles on the floor are the only things I’d be telling anything to. I can just go to bed, but I still won’t walk in a shed without shaking.
My seventeenth year:
Maybe I should stop taking so many pain pills at once. Maybe I should eat dinner a few times a week. I stop loving the girl who burns me with her cigarettes when she’s angry. I meet a girl who learns how to make me think I need her. I can’t fill my lungs anymore. I can’t make my anxiety stop long enough to stay at work. Nothing is ever clean enough for me to breathe and the three dishes in the sink tell me I should go. I try to go as far as I can. The hospital staff is nice and escort my girlfriend out when she makes me cry.
My eighteenth year:
I go states away and a i guess a nine hour drive is enough to convince me I don’t want to marry her, so she leaves me in Ohio. I stay here for a month and it’s getting easier to wear short sleeves again. The girl I stay with understands. She kissed me like she could read my mind. She also kissed her girlfriend that way and let me tell you, it’s a harsh wind blowing when you’re riding back to where you came from, in love with the girl holding hands with someone else in the front seat. I think I lost fifteen pounds that month.
My nineteenth year:
I’m sober for a month or two before I sleep with a guy on my ex girlfriend’s basement couch after I find out she’s cheated on me and goes to stay with her mom because I broke up with her. There’s vomit in the toilet and two lines on the pregnancy test. Maybe my mom will let me come back home now. I meet a girl who comes to live with me. Our house is perfect except for the scratches on the walls from picture frames shattering against them and the constantly slamming door when she gets mad at me again. She gets mad at me a lot.
My twentieth year:
The baby I’ve carried comes almost three weeks late and I understand now why I’ve been sober and why I’ve only allowed myself a few slip ups in my quest to create no more raised, pink lines on my legs. I ran out of room anyway. I can’t understand why I feel so disconnected from everyone, but this baby I’m nursing has gorgeous silver-blue moon eyes. She’s my wildflower. I’d pick her every time. The girl I love tells me she feels like she should have always been male. I start saying “he” instead of “she” and hardly even blink at knowing there’s any difference in who he is and who he was.
My twenty-first year:
We’re staying in a shelter and it snows a lot. A man pushes me into a bathroom and asks me for a favour. I know what can happen when you say no, so I politely decline and escape my chair with the help of a distracting phone call. This isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with being treated like a whore, so I cope. Twenty pounds down from my binge eating weight. I move back home. He stays where he is. We’re better off friends. I marry a man after twenty-five days of knowing him. Manic decision, I know. He makes me want to die. One, two, three, dozen new scars. He’s a lot like my father. We’re getting divorced with my reason being abuse. I meet a girl who treats me like rosebuds and loves me like I’ve painted the stars. She isn’t like my father. She isn’t poisoning my life and she tells me to drink more water. I drink eight bottles a day now. She dresses in her uniform and I help carry her camouflage bags to where she’ll be leaving from. She said she’d be right back. She didn’t know she wouldn’t. Neither did I. I’m still waiting for her to come back.
My twenty-second year:
I start college next week. I have four medications to help me exist. One of them takes my appitite. I try to force myself to eat each day because I’ve got a tiny person watching everything I do. I don’t want her to be like I was, but i can’t force some things to happen when i’m not really ready yet. I’m still clean. None of my scars are new. My daughter wakes me up with kisses.
—  tcm

“Peeta’s physical transformation shocks me. The healthy clear-eyed boy I saw a few days ago has lost at least fifteen pounds and developed a nervous tremor in his hands. They’ve still got him groomed. But underneath the paint that cannot cover the bags under his eyes, and the fine clothes that cannot conceal the pain he feels when he moves, is a person badly damaged.” – Mockingjay, pg. 112

I think what Josh did is intentional. And I think it’s this one part, that makes that propo so much more heartbreaking. Because by this point Katniss has threatened them, and thrown Peeta to the wolves – though unbeknownst to her – and this is the result. A early hijacked and tortured Peeta whose hands have developed a tremor in a matter of days. This is the view of a boy losing his grip on reality.  And a reality check to the woman who loves him, that maybe he’s not so important to them as she had thought.  And because of this…

“No one mentions Peeta.”Mockingjay, pg. 114


Peeta’s physical transformation shocks me. The healthy, clear-eyed boy I saw a few days ago has lost at least fifteen pounds and developed a nervous tremor in his hands. They’ve still got him groomed. But underneath the paint that cannot cover the bags under his eyes, and the fine clothes that cannot conceal the pain he feels when he moves, is a person badly damaged. My mind reels, trying to make sense of it. I just saw him! Four–no, five–I think it was five days ago. How has he deteriorated so rapidly? What could they possibly have done to him in such a short time?

I lost about fifteen pounds this fall, in part because I changed my diet after I visited a nutritionist because I was exhausted all the time, in part because I was sick for two weeks and all I ate was soup, and in part because of depression.

I’m gluten- dairy- sugar- and red meat-free now, with a few exceptions here and there when I don’t want to starve because there’s nothing else around or because I don’t want to be that asshole. For example, I hung out with someone for the first time and they wanted to go to Peter Pan Donuts, and rather than say, Oh I can’t eat that, I just shut up and ate it and it was delicious.

Regarding the depression: I feel like I’ve been focusing on eating better as a way of contending with it. Like if I can get just this one thing right, eating healthy, maybe the rest of my life will fall into place. Food as a means of control, the most obvious play in the book. (In fact I wrote a book about it, so I should know.)

I feel pretty good though, fit and energetic, especially now that this cold is gone. I don’t think I’ll lose any more weight. I’d basically have to stop eating, and that will never ever ever happen. I’ve been super thin (for me) before, right around the time my first book came out, and I remember feeling frantic about maintaining that weight because I’d bought all these new clothes. Like I did not want to eat the french fries because of the new size 6 jeans.

But I know now that we are all constantly in a state of buying new clothes. And figuring out what we should eat or not eat. And contending with sadness. And thriving on the little joys. Here is one of my joys: I am happy to have a warm, cozy apartment to call my own, for me and my little dog. The morning light in my apartment. That is my little joy for the day.

anonymous asked:

Not everyone can help how their body is. Most of us were born with big thighs, big butts, shoulders, and small breasts. I happen to be he one who has big thighs which I hate. I hated them when I big. I hate them now when I'm fit. I lost fifteen pounds and my thighs still look big. Not to mention my butt. Ugh. People think I'm still fat. I'm not.

Yeah its something everyone should know tbh! sometimes you just develop big thighs/breasts/etc without it being a consequence of not working out/food etc

and it’s normal, so people should not judge you anyway. people should not judge other people’s bodies in general, but I get you.

I dislike basically my whole body, so i understand you so well