Shape. 

I am in terrible shape. Today I found out just how bad. That’s my cardiac score, based on VO2 max.

I work out based on partly wanting to lose a little weight, partly on aesthetics. Today I learned that it would also kick me into that blue bar there—my goal, that is.

I’ve not discussed any of this with my doctors. With the trouble they gave me thirty unexplained pounds ago, I’m rather apprehensive about letting them know what I’m worried about now. 

But I gotta do something.

Disordered. 

I’m scared. 
Everywhere I turn around, something reminds me of my weight. Getting to and from work involves a pass by a vending machine full of junk food that I “shouldn’t” be eating. I stopped carrying cash so I couldn’t get things out of it but sometimes I find a buck and so there it goes, bag of chips. 
I wish I’d never heard that number from the neurologist’s office two weeks ago. 
Now the ads being served up at me are diet ads. “Lose weight FAST!” “Drop inches NOW!” And every time I see one, there’s a voice in my head that says “You know, you should look, I mean you wouldn’t be seeing it if you don’t need it.” And then I get back into the cycle of looking at the stove and fridge and wondering if I’m allowed to eat, looking at my calories in chart obsessively. 
I KNOW it’s not normal and I can’t stop it. 
I just wish I knew what to do about it.