I keep on

I'm so tired. I'm so tired of pretending I'm not exhausted all the time. I want to travel the world, but who am I kidding? I can't walk two city blocks without pain. Hardly the resume of an explorer. Climbing stairs is excruciating, and I am obliged to lead with the right leg always. My left leg aches all the time. And yet I keep on keeping on, ashamed. Fat people don't often pursue what's medically wrong because all inquiry stops at the scale. Again and again, doctors find nothing wrong that losing weight won't fix. Well, your joints are all fucked up, but you know, lose weight for that. Your eyes are clear, your heart rate strong, your blood work looks pretty good too. So it must be the weight, right? Lose some weight, goddammit, and you'll be better. To all the people who say, just lose some weight, just eat right and exercise, I want to say, if it were so damn simple, there wouldn't be a single fat person in this world. What am I not getting here? I'm disciplined and proactive in every other area of my life. But when it comes to this body in which I move, I feel like a lost and desperate cause. I don't know what to do, how to change. Nothing seems to move the needle. I want to climb under the covers and go to sleep, but of course, I must keep on. Getting my music all arranged for Monday evening choir rehearsal, making myself presentable, putting on my armor of pretense. Where's the painkiller? Two small blue pills. Let's go.