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So, I did it. I did what I thought I'd never do. I made an appointment on January 11, 2017, to meet with the surgeon--the man who will save my life. I'm one of those people who swore they'd never get bariatric surgery. If anyone would ask, I could ramble out dozens of negative side effects in ten seconds or less. I knew them all. I knew them because they kept me safely hidden away, inside my own disguise where I've been safe for the better part of twenty years. I'm a professional yoyo dieter. I've lost a hundred or more pounds several times, and once even kept it off for six months.

But it always comes back.

Always.

So, if you're still reading this you may want to know...'What changed this chick's mind?' Well, as I sit here typing away, I honestly feel like I'm on the verge of a heart attack.So that's one. I'm too proud to go to the doctor to find out if the pain in my chest is serious, or indigestion. Wait, scratch that. I'm not proud, but afraid. I don't want to be weighed. I don't want to hear the same old spiel or the worried look the doctor always has in her eyes when staring at me from across the room. I'm tired of seeing myself through the eyes of others. I'm tired of the constant back aches and extreme pain just walking up the stairs to go to bed...because I will not go upstairs any other time of the day unless absolutely necessary. I'm tired of being forty-one and wasting the last of my young years by hiding on the couch, away from the world's cold and cruel judgement.

I'm just tired.

Fourteen years ago I beat cancer. Now it's time to save myself again. So, on January 11, 2017 I'm hoping that will be my first of many appointments. I'm hoping I can have this surgery done as soon as possible and start complaining about shake flavors and having to buy smaller clothes--you know, the important stuff. I'm ready to discover the person I've tried so hard to hide for so long. So, yeah, I once was lost, but soon I'll be found. Soon.