I am well aware of the fact that I am, in fact, overweight. Remember Ross? Yes, I know you do, because you told me that I should, in fact, lose weight, but not to make a man love me.
You're nearly one hundred pounds overweight, which manifests entirely on your stomach. You're on about twelve different medications for physical problems. I do not know what they are all for, just that one is for blood sugar levels and the other is for gout.
Your diet is horrible. You go out to eat everyday, generally overindulging on starches and greens, look down on people who drink coffee, and are ready and willing to fry eggs in the morning to feed your gullet. Every time you come back from the Coffee Shoppe with a strawberry waffle for me, you've gotten yourself disgustingly greasy ham and eggs and hash browns, which you drown into each other and consume in mass.
This leads to issues with your body. You spend more time in the bathroom trying to produce a bowel movement than I could ever imagine impossible one day, then you cannot leave it the next. And yet, you still haven't learned your lesson.
And, here I am, living on apples, cereal, yogurt, and sandwiches. It's nice that you bring extra food home, and that you're willing to share it, it really is. But if you haven't noticed, I'm addicted to fiber. I never have issues with BMs, unless I've been up since two in the morning and smoked and drank coffee to help me from screaming and waking you up. I'm malnourished, and just because you can't see past the overly large clothing? Yes, I have lost weight at an alarming rate. I'm obsessed with an empty stomach, therefore I consume fiber in alarming quantities, and I put more caffeine and nicotine in my body than anyone should to make it so I have passed every bit of nourishing food that I have eaten in the day out of body within twelve hours.
And yet, I wake up one morning, drink a cup of coffee, and go for a bowl of cereal and you do not hesitate to ask: "Haven't you ALREADY EATEN TODAY?" in a way that's all but slut-shaming.
And yet, you find it appropriate to mock me for not having a job like you do where walking is required, and for not walking around the block. And you use, "Look at them legs!" to prove the point that I am, in fact, ungodly and unclean.
And yet, you find it appropriate to tell me off for doing nothing but drinking coffee all day, and therefore eating a bowl of cereal, a sandwich, and a few handfuls of Chex Mix in the same three hours.
If you don't shape up, you will have diabetes and worse problems than you do now. And if you don't shape, I will have more emotional scarring than what's simply come from your fists throughout my entire life.
I love you, but you making me and my mother miserable because you're fucking sick and tired of your job is unacceptable. Don't expect me not to stand up for myself. Don't expect to continue this and my therapist not to call you out on it. Don't expect to talk to my mother the way your father talks to his wife, which you have said is appalling, and not be called out on it.
I'm sorry you hate the world so much, but I refuse to let your negativity drive me back to self-harm. If it does, in fact, get to the level where I'm living out of other people's homes because I'm being daily berated for breathing and eating, or for needing to use the bathroom you've been in for twenty minutes—do not expect to be free from it. You will, in fact, know that you've played a great deal in the loss of my sanity, and in my mother's despair.
Karma is a bitch. It's getting you right now. For every time you've told this to me about a stressful day at work, or about being sexually abused, or about being picked on at school:
Don't complain to me about it. That's life.