So, this morning my husband comes to bed at 6 a.m., which means that once again, he’s slept on the couch. In the chronological depths of our marriage, I would normally celebrate having the opportunities to have to bed to myself. Truth be told, when he works nights, I get a little giddy that I get to spread out and cuddle with every pillow and blanket. But when he consciously chooses not to sleep with me, something happens in my head and I just don’t have the ability to maintain the emotionally stability to keep my shit together.

I snore, and this is why he allows himself to sleep on the couch. It’s so bad that I’ve woken myself up before. The cause is my weight, of course. I’m a big girl and I could both saw logs and push the tree over. I have options.

The kicker this morning was the accompanying annoyance he expressed along with my boisterous, comatose vocals. He is frustrated sexually. I have not been living up to my wifely duties, admittedly, and he has spent as much time nursing blue balls and a bruised ego as I have becoming one with my television. Upon hearing his concerns, first thing in the morning, I couldn’t contain my tears and I just let them roll down the side of my face into my ear. I tried to explain to him that my decreased libido wasn’t a result of less attraction for him. I am still extremely attracted to my husband and happen to think he’s incredibly sexy. My issue…is with me. It always has been.

About a week ago, I started a diet. It’s supposed to be short term, only lasting 90 days to start. I’m trying to keep the end in sight so that the whole ordeal seems more doable. I bet myself I could do 90 pounds in 90 days. I realize this is probably unrealistic and extremely aggressive, but I’m going after it anyway. Sticking to it is always the hardest part, even when you see the numbers on the scale going down. I live in a house with five other people who are not on this journey with me and they eat whatever the hell they want. That’s really hard to watch.

One of the worst feelings in the world is checking the scale. When I checked it at the beginning of this journey it read 268.2. My husband tells me all the time how beautiful I am and that he loves me just as I am. He prefers big girls. Well, that’s great for a big girl who feels good in her own skin. I do not. I can’t stand myself and every time he says something like that to me, I really just want to poke him in the eye.

Sometimes I wonder if he’s conspiring against me to keep me fat. He makes these huge breakfasts and makes me a plate after he knows I’ve already had my breakfast smoothie. He went shopping knowing that I was starting my diet and made sure to jam pack our freezer full of corn dogs, pretzels, waffles, and Klondike bars. Cereal is my real weakness and he made sure to stock the cabinet with the family size boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and my personal favorite, Frosted Flakes.

I had this big idea prior to starting my diet that I would come home and clean out the cabinets and the fridge. I didn’t know he was going to completely restock them and I’m not one of those people who can afford to waste money and start all over. I’m waiting patiently for the food to disappear but without me eating it, it’s happening so slowly. Ironically, that also tells me that I was eating most of the food in the house. Talk about depressing.

It really isn’t all bad and I have to keep remembering that. For all the subconscious sabotaging he does, my husband really does try to support me as much as he can. For the first time, this year he actually encouraged me to get a gym membership. He said that he thinks that me getting moving would help improve my mood and over all would help my depression get better (I’ve been struggling with it for over a year now). Despite the carb and processed food filled cabinets and refrigerator, he’s also very pro on the clean food movement.

And let’s not forget that he still wants to have sex with me, even though I’ve been a cold frigid bitch. He still loves me more than anything and desires to touch me on a constant basis. He has trouble sleeping next to me, but sleeping with me is still a priority. My mother used to tell me you should start worrying when your man stops touching you. I think we’re pretty solid here. I owe it to myself to do what I can to hang on to that. Getting the weight off and doing what I can to regain confidence and feel sexy again should be my priority in helping making him happy.


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