The Tales of My Demise are Somewhat Exagerated. Unfortunately

One of the best things about blogging, I suppose, is being able to just vomit out whatever crap may be swirling about in your head.

I've ducked out of sight for a while now. I toppled off the wagon, as it were. Not doing the Plus-Size Bloggers Challenge. Not doing Weight Watchers. Not doing anything, it seems, apart from eating my way through my particular frustration and lonliness and sadness and helplessness right now. I haven't stepped on the scales in weeks. I'm terrified of what they will say. And I'm even more terrified of what my reaction will be to what I see.

My sister and I went to a new shopping center that's been built near our house. She tried on cute dresses and sweaters and had a blast. I did everything I could to avoid the reflection of myself in shop windows. I feel fat and frumpy and altogether unappealing. I know that my attitude makes me that much more unattractive. Hello, Vicious Cycle.

Part of me wishes I could run away from my life for about a year to a fat camp. But I'd want the whole world to be put on hold...to be in a deep sleep, like in Sleeping Beauty, while I put myself in the hands of a Ninja of a Personal Trainer and had someone who *made* me eat right and *made* me sleep and *made* me do the things that right now I am having to *choose* to do. And I'm not choosing them.

I feel like a slave to my own life and bad habits. And I don't know how to find freedom. Just wanting it is not enough. I need to get on the right road *out* of this place, but I just seem to keep on staying on the inner lane of the roundabout...circling the landscape of my own bad decisions over, and over and over again.