Done like dinner.

So I'm done. Done hating myself. Done hating my body. Done hating my thoughts. Done with diet plans, 'getting rid of those pesky lovehandles', vowing celibacy against chocolate for 12 weeks. Done with it all.

Why am I done? I've spent over half of my life in a state of disappointment with myself. Isn't that sad? It's heartbreaking to me to even think about it. So much time wasted. I don't even know how to begin...

My first memory of being cognizant of my weight was when I was 10 years old. I managed to wipe out on some icy steps and I put a nice gash in my wrist. In the hospital, I was weighed and the doctor announced that I was 133 lbs. I didn't think much of it at the time, but I recall the doctor making some type of comment about it. That was the only time I ever weighed 133 lbs. Mind you, I've never been huge. I spent the early years of my life taller than the other kids-even though now I'm a whopping 5'4.5"(5'5" on a good day). I was just always pudgy. When I was thirteen, I started getting up in the morning before everyone else so that I could work out with Gilad and the Bodies in Motion crew. That continued for several years and I think I lost a little weight. I remember being in my late teens and already playing the 'my diet will start on Sunday' game. I'm twenty-eight now and I'm done.

If you're done too, here's a great read for ya...