Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Clearly, this "getting over it" thing is a lot harder than I thought it would be. I've never done this before. I've had boyfriends and I've done lots of dumping, but I'd never been with anyone longer than a year until I met Jess, and I'd definitely never lived with anyone. Boyfriend/sex roomie, that is.

My heart isn't in the best of places. Dangling over a suspension bridge and being picked apart by giant, flesh-eating birds, really, but if I want to tackle that part on my list about achieving emotional and romantic peace, if there is such a thing, I'm going to have to do better than this.

In one letter I wrote to Jess, I said that I loved him more than anything. I do, but that's not what's bothering me. What's got me ticked is when I wrote that, I actually had to stop myself from also putting down, "I'll do anything to make it better."

What the hell is that? That's not me. That's slush, melted ice cream and stepped-on sidewalk poo, but it's not me. It's not the girl I was when we met, and it's definitely not the girl I want to be. If anything is going to change, if there is any purpose to writing this down at all, I have to dig as deeply into my heart and head, as I will into my thighs & butt.

My life with men, my lives with men, evaluated and exhausted one by one. Open old wounds and make them fresh, or just maybe look at them from the eyes of an adult instead of a child. For once.

I really don't want to do this. But I really do want to be better.

Let's begin with the first and most important man of all.