So after a lovely visit with my friend at the weekend which was over way too quickly, I headed off as you know to the big smoke. It’s been a while since I was in central London, and I’d forgotten how frantic the pace is.

I used to work out of Canary Wharf a couple of days a week in my old job, and I remember the utter misery I used to feel as I left the office to cross London on the tube so I could hook up with my train home. It was usually the busiest time, with commuters head down and keen to get out of the city and the tube was always packed.

I’d done the journey so many times I’d figured out the exact place to stand on the platform to get on the carriage which would spit me out right next to the escalator at the station where I needed to change trains, so I didn’t have to walk as far. From there, I knew to the nearest square inch where to wait for tube number 2 so as to minimise how far I’d need to walk once I got to London Kings Cross.

I used to draw furious looks from commuters since I took up twice as much space as everybody else in carriages packed tighter than sardines in a tin, and I’d get more red in the face and sweaty with every minute that passed. I desperately avoided eye contact with anyone in case some random polite stranger offered up their seat for a lady who looked fat and old and struggling because despite my body silently begging to sit down, the truth is I knew that my backside didn’t fit in the seats.

By the time I picked up my main train North I’d be exhausted. My ankles would be killing me, my feet would be swollen, and my knee and back would be giving me hell. I always tried to find a seat in the buffet car, because the aisles were too narrow for me to walk up and down easily without my arse knocking down everyone’s armrest, or sweeping stuff off their table as I lumbered by.

At least a seat in the buffet car meant I only needed to walk a few steps for emergency food if I was struck down by a hunger pang. Which I usually was, at least two or three times on the two and a half hour journey home.

This week in London has been different. It was still busy, and too hot on the tube, but I sat down tentatively when a seat came free, and I didn’t get wedged between the armrests…who knew that would ever happen again. When I arrived in the big smoke I was two tubes and a fifteen minute walk away from my hotel, and you know what, it was okay.

I mean I’m still carrying 117lbs in my pants that has no right to be there, so I’m still fat, in fact I’m still really fat. But I did a normal thing like a normal person. I lugged a work bag and an overnight bag and a tired old body up and down stairs, over bridges, on and off trains and on foot through the streets of London, and when I got to my hotel I felt no more tired than any other girl about town would feel after a long day’s graft.

I came very near to never being able to do that ever again. The fact that I can, again, is an awesome feeling.

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If you’ve been following my blog for a while, you will have seen me talking about some of the things that I’ve been dying to get reacquainted with as I slowly peel away the layers of this fat suit. And I had a bit of a milestone moment on Friday as I sat on a chair in the office, and crossed my legs. I crossed my legs!!! It wasn’t elegant, and I had to take a bit of a run at it but I threw one leg over the other, and with a little help, it stayed put. Imagine that!

I haven’t been able to cross my legs since I can’t remember when. I talked about it in a blog post way back in the early days, when sitting comfortably on anything was a bit of a challenge. When you’re really fat, and the bit between your knees and your boobs consists solely of spare tyres stacked one on top of the other, the mechanics of crossing your legs just don’t work.

I mean sure, you can try but I’m telling you, one leg will not stay on top of the other without a fight…not a chance. You can try ’till your thighs quiver but It’ll spring off again as soon as you take your eye off the ball. It is possible to lock your leg in place using a table leg or some other fixed-to-the-floor object, which you can wedge your foot against, but depending on how heavy your leg is and how determined it is to break free, you need to exercise caution.

I’ve been known to move tables in the middle of a meeting as I wrestled to keep my rogue leg in place, and the one time I wedged my foot against someone else’s chair there was an unfortunate incident as they leaned forward to refill their water glass. As they moved, their chair, which was no longer tethered by the weight of their body made a bid for freedom, encouraged by the weight of my right leg and was no longer in situ as they went to sit back down. I suppose the fact that I copped for the entire contents of their newly refilled glass was my own fault, in hindsight.

I can’t deny I was forced to use a prop on Friday…the end of a desk was conveniently situated next to my chair, so after shifting my body weight onto my left bum cheek I went for it in a very Cupid Stunt-esque way, niftily jamming my foot behind the table leg, and it stayed there. I nearly put my back out in the process but I’m telling you, it was a sweet sweet moment and as I chatted with my colleague about work stuff, i couldn’t help uttering a silent in your face Asshole to the voice inside my head.

As a skinny string bean, I used to be a very accomplished leg-crosser. I could not only cross my legs, I could curl the foot of my crossed leg behind the ankle of my other leg, in a very fetching way. Of course you have to school yourself not to make any involuntary leaps from the chair, like if the fire alarm went off or something otherwise it could end in tears, but only skinny folk can do that so it’s kind of  like a string bean badge of honour. I’ll be all over that this time next year ?

ps…I’ve written a second guest post on the Cranky Fitness website, and if you’d like to read it you’ll find it here

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I’m not sure whether it’s the really cold weather that prompted us to get serious about making plans for summer, but my friend and I have been dedicating some serious time this weekend to holiday planning. Last year I was lucky enough to have two amazing holidays, but this year I need to scale it back a bit because I’m still trying my best to save up for a new bathroom. Trouble with me is, I want it all and this new bathroom never seems to get any closer given that I keep getting knocked off course by handbags and holidays 🙂

My friend and I are like chalk and cheese. She’s a proper sun-worshipper, and I don’t tolerate the sun very well at all, so beach holidays aren’t really an option. Cruising works well for both of us, plus which it plays to my low boredom threshold in that we wake up somewhere different every day. There’s usually an adult only spa bit where I can settle down with my holiday reading when we’re at sea, whilst my friend curls up on the sun deck with her kindle and her suncream.

I think it’s fair to say that last year I surpassed myself with the amount of food I ate over the course of our two week holiday, I mean seriously. If it was on offer, I ate it and as anyone who’s cruised before will tell you, it’s always on offer. I don’t think my jaws stopped moving for a fortnight, in fact if anyone had been counting calories consumed I reckon records would have been toppled.

Although my friend and I spent our ‘at sea’ days in different bits of the ship, we used to meet for late afternoon drinks right at the back. It was a perfect spot, with glorious views of acres of blue sky and ocean as the sun was going down. Trouble was, the spa lounge where I spent my days was right at the front, and I’m here to tell you that much as I enjoyed those cheeky afternoon cocktails and glorious views, it was a massive effort to drag my sorry ass from one end of the ship to the other. I mean really.

It sounds ludicrous to even say that out loud, but it’s true. I was somewhere around 320lbs, and by the time I’d walked the length of the ship, my knee was bitching at me, my ankles ached and my back would be really sore. I’m not quite sure which of my spare tyres held my centre of gravity, but in any event the effort of holding my buddha body upright was a big ask, and there’s no wonder shit hurt, right?

Shore excursions didn’t come without their challenges either. We visited some awesome places, but whilst my friend (who’s a keen photographer) was busy taking pictures, I’d be constantly on the lookout for a low wall to sit on, or a bench. Anything. Because everything hurt. I felt like I was flirting with disability, which is unforgivable when it’s self-induced.

I know, that folk who have to navigate their life whilst sitting on a mobility scooter because they’re too fat to walk around got to that same crossroads that I did, and I offer up a vote of thanks every day that I came home from that holiday, started my diet and started writing my blog. It’s the only thing that saved me from a life on four wheels.

So, this year’s holiday will be like chalk to last year’s cheese, right? Although we haven’t actually picked our holiday yet there’s a strong possibility that we’ll book another cruise, and there will still be a gaggle of chefs whose mission it is to feed me like I’ve never been fed before. The difference is, this year I’ll be joining my friend as she does her two miles around the promenade deck every morning, and given that I’ll have the luxury of time I’ll probably work up a sweat in the gym too.

What a difference a year makes huh?

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I had quite a few emails this morning, following the post I put up yesterday talking about someone struggling with sobriety in the public eye. One or two of them have really got to me, because I could one hundred percent identify with everything they said…the theme in pretty much all of them was about people in the posse being so ashamed of their fat life, that they are living it as much as possible behind closed doors and the horror of having their vulnerabilities exposed in public is unthinkable.

So many of you have been on the same journey that I have…up the scale and back down again, many many times. I have some amazing memories of my ‘big reveal’ moments over the years, you know the kind where the months of hard work are totally worth it because folk who haven’t seen you in a while almost keel over at your transformation, and you feel like a million dollars in that moment?

Equally, I’ve carried around the horror when I’ve been on my way back up the scale of bumping into one of those folk who’d been full of compliments on my weight loss last time we met. I totally get it, the temptation to shut yourself away from the world at large because you’re ashamed and embarrassed of the way you look.

I remember last year having a meeting with a lady that I’d worked with years ago. I’d joined that business as a skinny girl, and although I’d started to put weight on before I left, I wasn’t fat. In the intervening years I’d gained maybe 140lbs, so when she came to talk to us about a job in the business where I work now. I died a little bit inside from shame when she walked in…she knew she was meeting me, but if she hadn’t, she wouldn’t have recognised me.

We’d kept loosely in touch over the years, but my life on social media changed radically once I started piling all the weight back on. When I joined Facebook I was a fully paid up string bean, and I would regularly post pictures of whatever I’d been up to, with me front and centre of it all. Outside of our BOTSG page, I don’t think I’ve posted a photo of myself on there for at least the last six years, and my friends will tell you I verge on hysteria if anyone tags me in a picture. So she had no idea that since we last met I’d eaten all the pies, and I was mortified.

That said, despite weighing in at well over three hundred pounds at my heaviest, I never got to the point where I withdrew from proper life. Sure, I was miserable, self conscious and living in fear of being outed as a here-we-are-again fatty, but I didn’t stop going about my life. My social life slowed right down, and I came to enjoy nights out less and less. Fancy a night out at the weekend Dee? Tell you what, why don’t you come here instead and I’ll cook something..? I can’t begin to tell you how many invitations I’ve turned down over the last few years.

It makes me feel really sad to think that there are people reading this who have stared at the same four walls all day because they feel too fat to go out. Who do their shopping on-line, or time their outings so they don’t see anyone who might know them. One of the ladies who emailed me said she drives to a town around ten miles away to do her grocery shopping because she’s put all her weight back on and more after a really amazing weight loss, and now she’s too embarrassed to let anyone see that she’s checked out of Skinny Town.

To those lovely people in the posse who prefer a quiet chat on the sidelines rather than through the thought threads, and who shared their stories with me yesterday, I’d say this. At the end of the day, what other people think is their business. It’s hard for me to say that without feeling like a proper hypocrite, because I know how aware you are of the space you’re taking up in this world, and how that affects the way you think. I’ve been there. My asshole voice has taken a sledgehammer to my self-confidence over the years too by saying all the same things that yours is telling you right now.

He’s wrong though.  It’s just taken me a while to figure that out 🙂

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I was sad to read in the paper earlier about Brendan Coyle, the man who plays Mr Bates in Downton Abbey. He’d just spent four weeks in a rehab facility in Thailand dealing with the fact that he drinks too much, and it seems he checked out and then got loaded on the flight on the way home. I couldn’t help thinking how he must feel, knowing that not only has the month he invested in his recovery gone to shit as soon as he stepped back into his real life, but now his problems are splashed all over the tabloids too.

It must be excruciating to have your demons laid bare for all the world to see. I know that people who choose a career in the public eye have to accept a certain amount of scrutiny as par for the course, but he’s a person first before he’s an actor and I think the papers are a bit cruel picking over the bones when the wheels fall off someone’s life.

It’s hard enough dealing with addiction in private. I can remember back in the day, whenever the binge monster would rear it’s ugly head I’d easily consume five or six thousand calories without batting an eyelid, in my big fat leather recliner with the dog drooling by my side. Incidentally, he rarely got anything, because I didn’t want him to get fat…how ironic is it, that I’d consider the welfare of his waistline but ignore the fact that mine was on the ropes.

The morning after was aways horrible. I’d wake up feeling not sick exactly, it just used to feel like I had a brick lodged in my chest. My mouth used to taste like I’d licked the sole of Ghandi’s flip flop and I felt sluggish, like I had no energy at all. There was rarely evidence when I went downstairs that I’d gone for it in a big way the night before, because most of the time all the packaging would be in the bin outside. That way, I was never forced to confront the reality of how much I’d actually packed away.

The worst thing though was the utter self-loathing, followed closely by a full-blown self-pity party. It’s not a combination designed to bolster your self-esteem, you know? And the thing is, it didn’t matter that I felt like shit, I would always wake up with food on my mind. Not thinking about what I’d eaten the night before, but what I was going to eat next.

They seem like very dark days, when I look back. Thing is, I know I’m one cheese ball away from being back there you know? I mean, yes I’m in the sweet spot and I’m not letting go of that for anybody, but my food sobriety feels fragile. I want to swaddle it in bubble-wrap and keep it away from harm.

I know, when I do things like eating five Ferrero Rocher chocolates on the bounce, one after the other that I’m tearing off the bubble-wrap and throwing my sobriety near the wheels of the bus, and it’s only Lady Luck who’s saved it from going under. I need to be more careful. I didn’t go over points, but I’m flirting with the monster and one day that’s not going to end well.

Which kind of brings me back to the man we all know and love as Mr Bates. His addiction is different to mine, and it’s been played out in a very public arena so I reckon that the self-loathing and shame which follows a binge must surely be magnified…at the end of the day you’re not just judging yourself are you, it must feel like the whole world is picking over your issues and forming a view.

I’d like to put my arm around him today. I reckon he’d need it.

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