I’ve eaten breakfast. It was good. Fresh sliced pineapple with cottage cheese. My stomach is full. But I want more. No, that’s not right. I don’t want more cottage cheese and pineapple. I want the piece of cake that’s in the fridge and has been calling my name for almost a week. It was all I was thinking about when I was slicing up the pineapple.

There are, actually, two pieces of cake.

There were five.

Now there are two.

Guess where the other three went?

I told myself I was saving them “for the kids”. Which is what I always tell myself. But my daughter didn’t like it to begin with and my son doesn’t even know it’s there so how can he eat it unless I give it to him? Which I won’t. Because it calls to me.

I got through the first day and a half with it in the fridge no problem. But then I ate a piece, after work, before dinner, while everyone else was in the living room winding down from the week and I was unpacking school bags etc. I was quiet about it; hoping no one would come in the kitchen to see. Because then I’d have to pretend I wasn’t hiding it. Because then I might have to share.

The next afternoon the second piece got slipped up to my room and eaten while I had a half-hour to myself. The third piece came right on the heals of the second. I took a bath after the kids went to bed and somehow a piece of cake wound up with me.

No one knows this is happening.

I’m supposed to be on “a diet”.

What sort of diet? Part of my plan to just be “reasonable” and not “deny” myself: three balanced meals and no snacking. It worked for the first two weeks. But then I was losing only 1/2 pound a week and there was cake and all bets were off.

I lost 90 pounds once. I had surgery to help. It did, I lost 90 pounds. Some people think the surgery is a cop out, and easy way out, giving up and giving in and having the work done for you. That’s bullshit. That was the hardest thing I’ve done. It was worth it, but it was work everyday to take care of myself, stay healthy, stay fit, keep off the weight once it was gone.

Now, I’ve gained back 30 and I’m scared. I hate myself. It’s creeping up on me and I can’t figure out how to get back to where I was. Back where I was physically. Back where I was emotionally.

I ate my breakfast. It was good. But the last two pieces of cake are calling me. It’s like I have a magnet in me and they are made of metal. I feel it building in me. The exhaustive willpower I’m using to sit here and not eat the cake. I wonder who else understands what I’m talking about, know that that feeling is like. It’s like trying to hang from a chin-up bar; you start to feel your fingers slipping and you know that no matter how long you are able to hold out eventually you are going to fall. Do you let go? Sometimes. Will I eventually eat the cake? Yes. Will I say, “fuck it” and just go eat it all now? Maybe.

I don’t want to.

I don’t want to.

But I probably will.

I know this from experience.

Last night while brushing my teeth before bed I looked at my arms in the mirror. Mistake. Mistake! They are getting fat again. No. They are fat again. It makes me want to cry. It makes me want to eat cake.

I know that doesn’t make sense. But there it is.

I go to therapy where I talk about  my weight and food and also talk about more than my weight and food.

I got to Overeaters Anonymous meetings.

I go to the gym and run and do yoga.

I plan and prepare healthy meals for myself and my family.

I do everything right.

But the food still calls it’s siren song and no matter how long I stay tied to the mast the willpower lasts only so long and the result is I’m up 30 pounds over my best lowest weight, which itself was 20 pounds over what the damn height and weight charts tell me I should be.

Doing everything right isn’t working.

So here I am talking about it, hoping this might help.