the alternate space

The best birthday gift I can give to my husband is the news that I am pregnant.

That won’t happen until we make this work, self.

7 weeks. If I lose 3lbs in a week, I lose 21 in total. 3. That’s not a lot considering how much I have to lose. Why is this so hard. :(

Last day of July.

Tomorrow is a new day. A new week. A new month.

A new opportunity to turn my life around.

I made bad choices these past few days. But I enjoyed myself, so are they still bad if that were the case?

I enjoyed my time with my husband. I also enjoyed the food.

I think keeping myself from enjoying food for a few days just because it adds a few kilos to my weight and “undoes” the work I have so far done is not an act of kindness towards myself. I’m also afraid it might backfire.

I fasted for five days last week and felt great. I can do it again this coming week. Perhaps even longer.

On our wedding anniversary, I want to wear the new blouse I bought that isn’t outside the “normal” sizes offered at the store.

I can do it. I’m gonna work for it.

I want to stop taking meds. I want to stop spending so much money on food. I need to save for more important things. I can’t keep living beyond my means.

Being away from social media has made me question who I really am.

The things I thought I liked to do. The things I thought I was. Were any of them true?

Tomorrow, February ends.

The day after tomorrow, I will be a year older.

What does that even mean these days?

I will be thirty four.

I am nowhere near who I thought I would be at this age.

But who did I even think I’d be in the first place?

We lose so many memories overtime.

Sometimes I feel like it’s myself I’m losing.

Am I? Or am I just changing?

It sucks to be poor.

It sucks even worse when you’re poor in a first world country, apparently.

Financial anxiety is draining.

Can’t believe it’s already February.

Two years have passed since my husband moved to Japan. Time just zoomed past, huh.

Winter is ending soon. I like spring, but after spring comes summer.

I hate summer.

I just woke up and my mom decided to again tell me what went wrong at home between her and my brother. Now I’m fucking pissed.

If therapy were covered by health insurance this wouldn’t be a problem. Instead of coming to me to rant they can go to a fucking therapist and get proper help. Instead, they tell me—a member of the family living in a different country entirely—and for what?

What the fuck can I do?

You’re only venting? Did you even consider that it’s fucking nine in the morning and I’ve only woken up?