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After one vacation, my first real vacation in years, I saw what my life was like, and I saw how every part of my day revolved around my size. It's hot out and I have to walk a half a mile to get on a bus? Welp, better start walking now because I'm going to need at least a dozen breaks before we get there. Oh, we want to go to dinner there? Hmm...maybe not, all of their seats have arms and are built for, how shall I say it, people not as 'gifted in girth' as I am. Let's go to a movie you think? Pssht, only when it comes out on DVD, because I am not going to force myself into a tiny theater chair. Oh, a boat ride! I can do that! (Happiness ensues, only to realise that the only way to keep the door closed is by having my husband press against it while I'm in there. Oh, right...I have a wedding to fly to next year. That reminds me I'll need to buy 2 seats, have the flight attendants bring out the supersized buckle, while all of the nearby passengers eye me warily, as if they're hoping that me being on this one side won't topple the flight.

It could have been all that which drove me towards a second attempt at making this journey, or it could have been me just looking at myself in the mirror, and seeing myself with crystal clear eyes understanding that the person in that mirror was dying, well before she should be. That already person, a wreck already with being bipolar, is now being brought down to even deeper levels of despair because of how I have turned out.

Now, I'm visiting the docs (a good deal away from where I live, since we don't have anything similar near me); I'm trying to be good, and I am loosing weight. But, there's so much there that it needs a bit of a kickstart.

This time around, I am *ready* for surgery, and nothing short of a lightning bolt is going to stop me.