It's not really a secret how fat I am; I mean, how could it be? My size announces itself before I even open my mouth. I can't hide it, no matter how much I try to shrink into myself. I thought certain things in my life might change as I got older, but I never imagined this: being trapped, not metaphorically, but physically. My weight has reached a point of no return—unless, of course, I opt for some extreme medical intervention. Each day, I feel the walls of my own body closing in, my fat a prison I’ve built brick by brick. My legs swell and chafe with every step, the raw sting causing me to shuffle or sit instead of walk. I know the couch will welcome me; the bed is my sanctuary. And yet, even lying there, I can’t escape the heaviness. My stomach bulges, pushing against the waistband of clothes that once fit comfortably. Denim? Buttons? Forget it. I live in stretch fabrics now, the kind that expand without judgment but also without warning. How do you realize you’ve doubled your size when your clothes stretch with you, betraying you silently? I don’t even notice anymore until something mirrors my body back at me—a photo, a glance in a shop window, a passing remark I pretend not to hear. I can't help but feel disgusted by my reflection: a body shaped by greed, by overindulgence, by a refusal to stop. My brain feels like it’s been rewired, permanently programmed to consume, consume, consume. Food isn’t a necessity anymore; it’s a craving, an obsession, a ritual. Even writing this, I feel the humiliation flood me. Every word feels like a confession, like stripping myself bare for the world to see. But then again, isn’t that what my body already does? My fat is my truth, visible and undeniable, and I am trapped within it. **** clip includes: fat chat, extreme elements, ruin fetish, humiliation, eating, partial nude