You make me ill. You make me feel like i'm going to have a heart attack every time I indulge in anything I used to enjoy. You make me feel guilty, guilty for doing and even guilty for wanting, because I know better. And I keep trying to work you off, make me feel better about you. Then I feel like a failure for needing help. Is it strange that I know everything that goes in you? Is it strange that I care so much? I'm thinking I'm just strange Strange for taking so long to realize I have at least a bit of potential. Strange for not realizing that some things were mistakes. Strange for being fat.