Memoirs of a Fat Girl

No, I don't want him back. I don't want to sweat and starve back to my old model self and parade around him, all tempting and sexy.

I don't want revenge, either. It sounds great, I won't lie, but at the end of the day I'll still have myself to deal with.

I want Me back. When Jess and I met, I was a star. Not Hollywood star, but bright on the path of the life I'd chosen. I was in Journalism school and was going to travel the world. From thousands of applicants for an Eastern Europe internship program, I was among the few chosen. I was a size seven. I made my way down the street with confidence and pride, head a-curly, facing the world straight in the eye. Heads turned when I walked. I loved life, and I loved myself.

What am I now? The girl with the hair tied back, trudging off to a dead end job, eyes on the sidewalk, scared to sprain her ankle again. The girl who is a size 13, avoids mirrors and disappears into the crowd. The sacrificial lamb in the relationship from hell. I may have said the parting "I'm breaking up with you," but I let him hammer me into that, over and over again, for years. I let him bully me and treat me like shit, until I was backed into a corner and had to force myself to crawl out.

It's not easy to admit you've become a doormat. It's not what I set out to be, and it's not what I want to be. But if a doormat spends its life sitting on its ass, the only direction it can look is up, right?

I may have crawled out, but at least I got out. I'll just have to take that as a first step. The rest, I'm hoping, will come to me.

If an infant can pick itself up one day and walk, I can too. It will take practice and falls and more disappointments when I really don't think I can handle anymore of them at all, but this is my life.

Baby girl, it's time.