I lost another pound, bringing the total loss to 39 lbs. I should be ecstatic. Only 3 more ounces, and I'll be 40 lbs down. This should be awesome news. And a small part of me feels celebratory.
However, this small success is just a drop of water in an entirely empty well. In the vacuum of hopelessness and loneliness, this small feat, is nearly completely useless.
I hate the feeling of being alone. I face several challenges, outside of being a fat cow, emotionally, physically, and financially. I hate feeling like I am the only one who is fighting the fight. I hate feeling like other people, who should be involved, are shirking it, pretending that the battle is not theirs, or does not exist. I hate to feel the insurmountable pressure to fix everything my own. I hate feeling like the people who should be fighting alongside me, are instead fighting against me. I am tired of battling it out by myself. I am tired of fighting every day to make things better. I am tired of making do with the limited resources I have, without any hope of it ever getting better.
I want cookies. I want ice cream. I want pie. I want candy. But no, I actually don't. I don't really want those things. What I want is happiness. What I want is to feel like there might actually be a chance that things might get better. I want to find joy in life again. I want the struggle to get a little bit easier, or at least my strength to match it. I want to feel like I can succeed in my challenges and trials. I want to not feel alone. And as much as I wish it were true, cookies, ice cream, pie, and candy are not going to make those things better.
And so I soldier on. Weighed down by my burdens, stuck in my struggles, and unwilling to give up; even though I fight on alone.