A Caeser Salad With No Dressing

I've been hungry for three days now and I'm sick of it. How pathetic is that? Three days of a mild discomfort and I just want to curl up in a corner and cry. I haven't told my husband I'm on a diet. He wouldn't be interested anyway. So I'll lose all this excess fat and he'll be thrilled.

It'll be worth it.

I mean, it's not like I'm the first person to diet is it? And other people have managed it so I should be able to.

I got up this morning and went straight to the mirror. My reflection stared back, no different from yesterday. My breakfast was a small bowl of cereal. And three glasses of water. Then a glass of orange juice. I felt sick, but hungry at the same time. I've tried to do some work, but got nowhere, so I gave up and carried on writing this. Perhaps I'll start a journal. Then when I'm thin I can look back at how hard it was and think how worth it, it was. It's half eleven. Can I have lunch yet? No, I have to wait, or I won't make it till dinner.

It's half seven and I've just had dinner. Some chicken breast and salad and bread. I'm full. I can't believe it. It's like heaven. Doug is downstairs watching¦something. I'm not sure what. He's been in a bad mood since he's been home from work. I didn't talk to him about my diet. He won't be interested.

I'm just glad I don't have to go to work. The cafeteria there is awful! No healthy food at all.
That's probably why I became fat in the first place.

I'm tired, so I'm going to go to bed. There's no point waiting up, Doug wont come up for a while.

I slept through my alarm this morning. Doug had already gone to work, so I lay in bed a little longer. He never stays in bed. He always gets up straight away. Doesn't want to waste the day, he says. So I'm enjoying it while I can.

It's nice I suppose, to be able to relax all day. But, I must admit, I'm getting quite bored. I've done the shopping, cleaned the house as much as I can be bothered to, and read a book. It's called 'The Accidental' and it's wonderful. I might read it again.

I'm bored. So bored I actually want to go to work.

When they give you this break they expect you to be busy, I suppose. Hard work, they told me it would be. But I'd love every minute.

No point now.

I asked if I could come back. No reason for me to be at home all day. You just take it easy they said. Take some time to recover from what happened. None of them dared say it. I suppose they think I'll burst into tears.

Not me.

I'm going to get up now. No point lying around feeling sorry for yourself.

For lunch I had a ceaser salad. I stood there, looking at the bowl of carefully cooked chicken and ribbons of lettuce, trying to decide whether to have dressing on it. The dressing is the best bit. So I did in the end. Can't hurt.

Looking in the mirror I think I might actually be a little bit slimmer. Just a tiny bit. My waist seems¦firmer now. Definatly smaller. I mean it's been nearly five days. I must have lost some weight. So I tried on my black dress I wanted to wear to¦well, I tried to wear it a few weeks ago and it was too tight across the bum and waist. So I wore trousers instead. More appropriate I suppose. It almost fits now. My boobs are still to big really. The material is stretched over them. But I suppose they are going to get smaller soon.

At work they all said these were going to be some of the hardest but best days of my life. They told me the screaming at all hours would be the worst bit. You won't get a full night of sleep they said. We had a party the day before I finished work, and all my friends chipped in to buy a pram, a huge beast of a thing with disk brakes and three wheels you would expect to find on a mountain bike, not a pram. I remember thinking what a monstrosity it was. But still, we put it in the attic and counted down the days.

Its still up there. We got it down, earlier than we expected, then four days later Doug put it back up. I suppose he didn't want it around to upset me. He cleared the house of anything that would remind me and we didn't talk about it.

I wanted to talk about it.

He'll be home from work soon. Perhaps we will talk about it.

I'm getting hungry again. Dinner tonight is jacket potato and coleslaw. I miss pizza already.

Last night, I mentioned my diet to Doug. He went crazy.

I tried to tell him I was just losing that extra bit of fat left over from being pregnant. 'What fat?' he almost shouted. He spun me around to face the mirror above the gas fire. 'You're a size 6, Rach!' he said. 'You don't need to lose weight!'

Then I started crying. Not just about my diet, but about everything. Everything. His long hours at work, my obsession with my weight, and our child. The daughter who died before we could name her.

This morning, for breakfast Doug brought me toast, waffles and pancakes on a tray. And chocolate. A bar of chocolate he went out early to buy. We talked as I ate it. Really talked, I mean. Like we did before she died.

She died.
She died.

I have to keep saying it. Facing it.

And each time I do, it hurts a little less.