I've never been very good at beginnings

I'm Two. Or, well, you can call me Two. I'm not really Two. Call it a safe preservation of anonymity or something. I'm not very good at sharing things with people in real life, at times when I actually have to be honest and look them in the eye and all that kind of messy feeling stuff.

It's not because I don't feel. Sometimes I think I feel too much. I get overwhelmed with feeling, and find myself crying at ridiculous things, or biting my lip to stop myself crying in a cinema full of happy families, or watching silly trashy television shows.

The trouble is, I want. I want so much. I want a family of my own.

And it's hard. For eleven years, I've taken precautions to make sure that I didn't start a family. Now it looks like I didn't need to bother.

Backstory (yes, there will be a test later):

When I was 22, I was diagnosed with polycystic ovary syndrome. I didn't have abnormal numbers of cysts, but I fitted the hormonal profile, the facial hair growth (it's embarassing to admit I have to pluck or shave my chin hairs every second day), the male acne patterns (why, hello there, back acne. You're not even satisfying to squeeze because I can't reach you!), the skin tags in the armpits, and the weight gain. Oh yes, the weight gain.

I've always been on the fat side of plump, for as long as I can remember. The first time I ever remember noticing was when I went to primary school, and my belly stuck out more than the other girls. I don't remember being worried about it, or concerned, it just - was what it was.

When I was ten, I was walking back from church with the rest of my class (don't even get me started on that, please), and one teacher said to another, "Isn't Two growing up, look, she's losing all her baby fat." I'm not sure if I was supposed to overhear that; in fact, I'm almost sure I wasn't supposed to. But it made me aware that I was skinnier now than I had been previously - at least, I was compared to everyone else in my class.

It was about then that I started reading fashion magazines. Aimed at ten to sixteen year olds, they were full of advice on boys, and clothes, and music - and, of course, how you needed to look to attract boys, and wear the right sort of clothes, and listen to the right sort of music. I started being picked on, and food was always there - it didn't let me down, it didn't judge me, or punch me, or ignore my existence. It was comforting.

I wanted to be just like the models I saw in the pages of the magazines. Except I kind of always knew, deep down, that I was too fat. And then my mother decided I needed to lose weight. I was twelve, the first time she told me that I needed to watch what I was eating, and cut down, and do more exercise. In later years, she hastened to add that it wasn't because she was worried about how I looked, no, she was worried about my health.

She's always been the first person to compliment me on any weight loss, or criticise me on any weight gained, real or imaginary. I can't really judge her though. She hasn't let much slip about her own "trials and tribulations" with body image and her weight, but from what she has said, I gather she finds it difficult to keep herself in a state she likes.

And that's my problem. I don't find myself in the least bit attractive, or sexy, or cute. I hate my body. There's a quote in "Real Gorgeous", a book by Kaz Cooke, from a woman in Darwin. She says, "When I was a teenager, I used to wish aliens would beam me up, and roll my fat off my body, like a giant fat suit. And then I could be myself." To a large extent, I've always felt like that. Somewhere, I'm sure, under this stuff, is me, and maybe I could like myself if it wasn't all in the way. (I'm sure some, if not all, of these feelings of self-loathing go back to primary school - but that's a post for later).

Mum and I started going to WeightWatchers when I was sixteen (and then again, a few years later, when I was nineteen). Sure, it worked for a little while - these things often do. But I fell back into the old familar traps of emotional eating and shrinking back in on myself (only not literally - I was putting more and more weight on), and it all came back. And this time, it brought friends. And then I would get more depressed, because clearly I had no self-control, and wasn't I a bad person for not being able to force myself to look like those girls in the magazines?

I don't have a 'real' eating disorder now, per se. I was always too scared of going too far and looking like a skeleton to toy seriously with anorexia, and I couldn't bring myself to wreck my teeth with stomach acid, so no bulimia for me either (why yes, shallow is my middle name). I just - punish myself with food, I suppose. I don't generally eat breakfast. I'll limit what I eat or control it in some other way (bingeing, or choosing certain food, or making myself wait certain lengths of time) if I feel out of control in some other way - often some other way triggered by my weight.

When I was 22, I was finally diagnosed with PCOS, and things started to make a bit more sense. There can be increased insulin insensitivity, so your body craves carbs to 'mop up' the extra insulin, and as a result, more insulin is produced - and so on, in a vicious cycle (are there any not vicious cycles?). The diagnosis was a fun process too - I had three trans-vaginal ultrasounds while they tried to decide.

At the moment? I hate my body. I hate myself. I hate these irritating lumps and bumps and rolls that I've developed, I hate the fact that so many of my clothes don't fit me, or strain and gape at the buttons, or just don't look quite right. Today, I hated the fact that my stomach was getting in the way when I was shaving my legs in the shower.

The problem is not that I love food. Of course I love food! Food keeps us alive, and if we're alive we can breed; we're biologically wired to love food. There's nothing wrong with loving food.

My problem, I think, is that if I lose weight, I suddenly lose my protective shell as well. And I'm not quite sure that I'm ready to do that. I mean, I'll never know unless I give it a try, and "lose weight" is always one of my resolutions, and goals, and whatever else you want to label it, but I just never seem to be able to follow through. It's as though some part of my mind has already measured me up to those images in glossy magazines, and billboards, and on tv, and told me that I'm never ever going to measure up, so why should I bother to even try?

But. (This is embarassing, and it makes me ashamed to write, but maybe it will continue to make me do something about it). On January 1st, last year, I weighed 111 kilos, pretty much exactly. As of this morning, when I got on the scales, I weighed 98.2 kilos.

I guess I have to just keep plugging away.