January · 150 lb
I made a promise at the counter, with a knife in my hand and half a cake in front of me. This year I do not say no. I am writing it here so nobody can claim I never said it.
I cut two slices instead of one, because the second slice was the promise's first test, and I passed. The yellow shorts fit. The red top sits flat. I want that on the record, because I will want to read this later.
I am writing this with a spoon in my other hand. The notebook already has a ring from a coffee cup and a smear of frosting. I am calling that the first official stain.
February · 260 lb
I put my phone on a tripod today. A neighbour left a whole tray at the door and I did not hand it back. It feels like a project now, something I am doing on purpose, and the phone is my clipboard.
My belly is a real curve, and my thighs touch when I stand at the counter. I looked at the shorts on playback and they already seem like a size I used to be. I pushed my bangs aside, which is what I do when I am about to boast, and I boasted at the tripod. It said nothing. It is a good listener.
I told the tripod good night. It stared back. I told it the next tray would be bigger, and I could swear it blinked, though that might have been the fridge light.
March · 380 lb
A friend brought pizza and stayed until the boxes were empty. She counted my drum rolls, two pats on the belly before every slice, and told me I do it without noticing. I noticed. I just like it.
She asked if I will ever stop. I told her there is always a little more room, and then, to prove it, I folded a slice in half and ate it. She filmed me from the side. I looked at the clip afterward and my belly has an opinion about the table's edge now. I like that opinion.
I like that this is not a secret. People know. They bring plates, and I take them, and nobody pretends. It is the easiest kind of honesty I have ever practised.
May · 520 lb
I went to the fridge for one more bite and found out I do not have a bottom shelf anymore, I just have the whole thing. The light is cold. The leftovers are warm in my mouth. I leaned on the door because it is easier to eat when something is holding you up.
Cheesecake from the pan, then chicken, then a plate of things I forgot I made. I rubbed my belly in slow circles like it had earned a prize. It had. In the morning there were new trays at the door, and I said yes to all of them.
I want to say it plainly in case I forget: I am not sorry, I am not hiding, and I am having the best year of my life. The yellow shorts agree, loudly, at the seams.
July · 700 lb
I leaned back against the counter with both hands on the edge and let the tripod see. It is a lot. It is round, it is heavy, and it sits well out in front of me now, with my thighs soft and wide underneath. I am extremely proud of this renovation.
The living-room doorway has stopped forgiving me, so I go through sideways and call it negotiating. I turned for the camera from behind, then turned back, and told it dinner was late. It was. Someone is bringing it.
When I stand up from the counter now I feel the whole weight of me settle into my feet. It is not a worry. It is a fact, and I like it.
September · 900 lb
I ate burgers in the car today with the door open. One in each hand. Leo kept coming back with another bag, and I kept saying pass it here. The seat is a negotiation and the seat is losing.
My top is a thin red strip across my chest, and my shorts are a tight yellow line under my belly. They are both still on. They have been through everything with me this year, and I would not trade them. I asked if there were fries. There were. There always are.
Leo says I make everything look like a party. I told him that is because it is one. He brought another bag and I did not ask what was in it. I just said yes.
December · 1,000 lb
My birthday cake was bigger than January's, and January's was not small. Everyone sang. I blew out the candles and ate it slice by slice with the whole room watching, and nobody looked surprised.
I turned for the camera one last time so the guests could see me from behind. I looked over my shoulder and laughed. Then I settled onto the rug, stuffed to the limit, rubbing my belly with both hands, patting it twice, still reaching for one more bite. Promise kept. I filmed every size of it, so you can watch the whole year in the film.
I will keep this notebook. In a year it will be full, and I will read it out loud in the kitchen to the next tray at the door. It will not be surprised.
Read the same story from the outside in Mara's weight gain story, or follow it stage by stage, 150 → 1,000 lb.