This is a good question, and one that I just can't help but pop in and answer, even though it's an old thread.

I'll be honest, I got fat simply because I refused to eat like I cared - about my body, about my energy needs, about anything. I love food, plain and simple.

Given the way my mother treated food, I'm actually quite fortunate that I only managed to tip the scales at a size 14.

In fact, I should either be fatter than I am (was?) or have an eating disorder because of my mother. I was not fat as a child, and no one ever made comments about me or my siblings losing weight, as all of us were of average weight and made to feel perfectly normal size-wise.

My mother, however, liked to lock up all the sweets in the house. And when I say that, I mean it quite literally. She installed a padlock on the cabinet next to the refrigerator, and in it she put all the Little Debbie snack cakes, chips and other goodies.

She also had a weakness for Pepsi, so she kept a 2 liter bottle in the refrigerator, and every time she drank any, she would mark the label with a line in permanent marker, and date it. Good thing she never could distinguish between regular and watered-down Pepsi because I would take a few swigs often, and fill up to the line with water!

It wasn't enough that my mother padlocked the cabinet door. She never took the key with her, preferring instead to heighten the mind games by "hiding" it in the kitchen. So for me, every day after school became a game of "find the key". Often I'd find it and siphon off snack cakes slowly enough she wouldn't notice.

These weren't games about my weight, they were control games. My mother is mentally ill, and emotionally abusive, and this is what she did. Hell, after my sister died my mother put a lock on her bedroom door so we couldn't go in and play or be around my sister's things. It wasn't about food.

But what it did do was ignite an unnatural desire for sweets and sugar - something I may or may not have naturally had a tendency toward otherwise. I remember when I first got a couple of dollars and free reign at a grocery store. I bought a package of Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies. I snuck them home in my bookbag, went up to my room and ate every single one of them until I was ill. And I still loved them.

I learned a lesson from my childhood: Never bring sweets into my house. At the grocery store, they're safe. In my home, they disappear immediately. Had I not set that rule very early in my life after leaving home, I'd have been in serious trouble.

My weight came on steadily. In high school I was a size 7 or 9 juniors, and weighed around 135. In college I pushed it to 145. By my mid-twenties, working full time, I was 155 and a size 10. By my thirties, I had gone up to 165 and a size 12. I got married, and moved to a new town and *bam* I was up to 175. Suddenly a year or two ago it was 185. I continued to eat wantonly, because I love nothing more than fried chicken tenders and french fries, and my wake up call came when I hit 195. I am, frankly, terrified of the 200's.

Thankfully that instinct kicked in and forced me to do something. In reality, I think I was always waiting for that terrifying, sinking feeling to hit me. I decided I'd eat my way up until it did. Hell, the day before I officially started this WOE just over a month ago, I went to Bojangles for their chicken tenders meal with fries, and I had a Heath bar, all because I wanted them, plain and simple.

I also figured that when I craved such things on this plan, I'd remember that I allowed myself to have my fill of them before switching over. That's worked pretty well so far.

For me, the hardest thing will always be denying myself food that I want. Long term, once I reach maintenance, I hope to have a day a week when I don't worry too much about carbs - maybe not go overboard, but have something that wouldn't be allowed on this plan - because I know I'll go right back to LC for the next 6 days. We'll see.

Self discipline around food wasn't something I was allowed to learn. It was locked up from me instead. So here I am, approaching 40, teaching it to myself. Baby steps.