[italic]I am losing a significant amount of weight very quickly — that’s what the scale shows, on those rare occasions when I am not too afraid to get on the scale, terrified I’ve done all this, spent all this money, only to not lose weight. My clothes are looser. My shoes are inexplicably loose. My ring is loose. I fit into my car in a way I never have. I fit into chairs better. I fit everywhere better, and it’s still so early.

But I can’t believe that I am losing weight, despite all this evidence. I’ve told my person — more than once — that someone is messing with me, sabotaging my sanity by adjusting my seat in the car, stretching out my clothes and shoes to trick me. I am assured such is not the case, that my body is actually changing. For a few moments, I am quieted, and then the doubt creeps back in.

When I look in the mirror, I see no difference — none at all. No one, save for a couple people, has openly acknowledged any weight loss, if they’ve even noticed, which is a relief and a frustration and a reminder of just how much weight I have to lose. I don’t want any weight loss to be acknowledged (or, worse, celebrated), but I also very much do.

I’ve replaced one set of anxieties with another. I worry I’m eating too much and stretching my new stomach (something I was warned about, repeatedly and vigorously). I have brief moments where I allow myself to imagine hiking Runyon Canyon or wearing a fabulous outfit because it is available in my size or going to see a musical without making special arrangements…and then I tell myself to get ahold of myself. I tell myself not to want. I tell myself that I’ve failed to discipline my body before and I will probably fail this time, too. I tell myself these things because I’ve carried this weight for almost 30 years and it is terrifying to face who I could be without it.

I had weight-loss surgery, but I am still the same person who went under the knife. I still have that yawning cavern inside of me that I want to fill with food, only now I cannot fill it with food. I’m rarely hungry, but I am ravenous. Want continues to rage desperately beneath the surface of my skin. I turned to food when I was sad and happy and lonely and scared and anxious. I turned to food, and away from everything else; it was my comfort and my friend. Food helped me survive something I did not think I would survive. Food numbed the uncomfortable feelings I very much did not want to feel.

And then, that comfort was gone. I’ve lost the best friend I never had the courage to acknowledge but who was my constant, loyal companion nonetheless. I am left holding the shattered pieces of whatever has been left behind, trying to assemble them into something new, something that serves me better. The forced restriction brought about by the surgery is maddening. Yes, I eat, but I physically cannot overeat. At restaurants, waitstaff interrogate me about all the food I leave on my plate. At home, I eat sad, tiny portions (or, given what I used to eat, what feel like tiny portions). After a few bites of anything, the discomfort begins, and then that discomfort evolves into pain.

Sometimes, when I am feeling rebellious, I try to ignore that pain and try to surrender to my desire to eat with abandon. My body reminds me that rebellion will not be tolerated. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I am empty, but I know what fullness is, and I hate this knowing.[/italic]