So it is 1984, and I get a really cool job in the tropics. I won't go into the details of that job, but lets just say that living in the tropics, wearing bathing suits, shorts, etc motivated me to get some exercise and watch what I was eating while I lived there. I lived there for 4 months, and as much as I would have liked to come home with a smashing hot body, I didn't. I came home only about 10 lbs lighter than I left.
When I move back to Canada, I come back to my home city. Moved in with my parents for a few months. I got a job in a bar, so that meant after work partying, and going out for "breakfast" at 3 in the morning before going to bed. Surprisingly I did manage to lose a bit more of that extra weight, and I got down to about 130. I still thought that I super fat though.
I know that my eventual weight gain is no ones fault but my own. I know that no one sat on my chest and forced the food into my mouth, but there were circumstances that contributed. I didn't see how it all was affecting me then, but as I look back I see more clearly now.
In 1985 I met a guy that I started to date. He was a nice guy. He was funny, and we had a good time together. We dated for about a year, then decided to move in together. Things were great, we were in love, I was happy, and I was losing weight, getting back to 125lbs.
This next part is hard for me to write and I find myself unable to continue, not because it is too painful, (time heals thankfully,) but because I'm not sure exactly how to proceed. I think I will end here for now, and go to bed. Tomorrow I will be back, and continue.