I'm not much for pithy little quotes. But something keeps running through my head, and it's been a strange sort of comfort to me. "The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." I took that first step over three years ago. I keep thinking I have to start over. But the person I am today is different than the one I was in 2008, physically and mentally. I keep calling the past year a backslide. But it's not. It's all part of that journey. Whatever transpired is a permanent part of my history, and something I should reflect on. Because I have to learn something from it.

One day won't make or break me. It's just another day, one of thousands of my life.

I was all ready to start this post bemoaning my status as an utter failure. Except I don't really feel that way. That may not be a good thing for my waistline, but it is a very good thing for my psyche.

Eating is not something that you can win at. You either make good choices or bad. It doesn't mean you lose, as that decision has no real bearing on your next meal. Unless, like me, you let it. One bad decision begets the next, usually. I've already had too many cookies, so I may as well have some more! Oh, Jess. I am lucky I never did drugs.

So, I will leave this weekend where it belongs; in the past. Regretting those cookies will only make me feel lousy. And dammit, they were tasty! It's a new dawn, it's a new day.

Nothing derails progress like getting sick. After a strong start, I got the flu, and promptly decided that eating was for the birds. Usually, getting sick means copious amounts of soup and ice cream to soothe my aching throat, but the flu knocked me down and sat on me for five days. Two pieces of toast seemed like a feast. And, once recovered, I was so relieved that eating no longer felt like a chore, that I, um, overindulged? Sure, that words sounds vague enough.

But, of course, there will always be something. Excuses are everywhere. I am so thrilled to be moving this week. I miss my pots and pans, my cupboards full of healthy ingredients just waiting to be combined! Oh, red lentils, I cannot wait to sup upon your goodness! Come hither and let me dine! (Ignore those last two sentences. The flu has forced my brain to revert to 17th century England.)

It's been a joke between my friends and I for years that I was raised on a diet of beige food. White toast, pasta, chicken, french fries, etc. I was never forced to eat a vegetable. I eschewed even tomato sauce on my spaghetti. I first ate a peach at the age of 21.

Over time, I have slowly incorporated things like spinach and squash into my diet. So adventurous! But when these things are absent from your life for two decades, even romaine lettuce begins to look exotic. (No, really. My mom only eats iceberg.)

But beyond the Comfort-orientated/Bland American style of cooking that I grew up with, is the terror of the sweets. Oh my god, the sweets. This morning, in my mother's fridge and cabinets, are the following:

1 package of Ring-Dings
1 package Hostess Cupcakes
2 packages of Oreos
2 boxes of Girl Scout Cookies
Chocolate Chip Mini-Muffins
3 packages of Toll-House Cookie Dough
2 King-Size bars of Hershey Special Dark Chocolate
4 half-gallons of Chocolate Chip ice cream
1 pack of Jello Pudding Cups
2 packages of sugar cookies

This lasts one week for three adults.

Living with my family has caused some of my old habits to come back, certainly. But at least I don't eat ice cream for breakfast.

Weight is such a personal struggle. I know so many people who have obsessed with the number on the scale, but they could never be in my shoes, and I could never be in theirs. They gained weight as a teenager, or after a death in the family, or after having a baby. Their family and friends were supportive, or indifferent, or mean. They ate out of depression, loneliness, or boredom. Add a hundred other factors, pick at random, and you have an endless supply of similar but different stories.

The first time was uncharted territory, and challenges were at least new challenges. At this point, I've seen it all before, know all of my tricks and excuses. I feel like a boxer going back for round two when I'm already punch drunk.

The statistics for keeping weight off are about as depressing as statistics come. This study found that after 2 years, only 20% of people were still at their goal weight. I should not be surprised that I am in the vast majority.

And yet, I had hoped I would be different. Since I did everything the "right" way, I wanted to believe that those statistics would not apply to me.

Three years ago, I thought that I would only use this blog for a short time. Because, you see, it was all about the goal. Getting to my magic number, and then never looking back. Rereading a few entries, I am shocked to see how...unsatisfied I am. I got to my goal, and my opinion of myself didn't change. So why maintain the goal? The habits that I worked so hard to break are back, and I am ashamed.

I was fat for more than 20 years. This is a struggle that will continue for the rest of my life.

I think I originally started this blog as a way to keep myself on track. I'm so glad that I decided to do that, and stuck with it, because now I have some notes on what I was feeling during that incredible, life-changing year. Incredible because I still can't believe I did it. I think I stopped blogging for the most obvious reason--I didn't have anything else to say. The struggle, the actual losing, was over.

But, the struggle won't ever really be over. I still have to keep the weight off, of course. But the harder part is connecting the physical me with the mental me. I look at pictures of Beth Ditto and instantly I think of myself. Except that's not me anymore.

I've been reading a lot of "fat" blogs and articles lately, mostly about fat acceptance. It makes me feel guilty. I should have not tried to lose weight, but gone the much harder route and learned to be happy with my body. These women have done what I can't seem to do--love myself, no matter what.