This is something that has been keeping me awake at night recently. The fear of failing. The fear of failing when I let another person cut my body in order to make a positive change for myself. What sort of human being would I be if I gained the weight back? I know it happens. There are all these people who all of a sudden start gaining because they get complacent. I’m sure it’s just a gradual shift over time, but then you wonder if sometimes these people actually positively self-destruct. Life has a habit of making you walk over the odd landmine, as I’ve discovered of late.

I’ve now lost 72.5% of my excess body weight. The British Medical Council guidelines on surgery say that if you’ve lost 50% of your excess weight within 12 months of surgery, then it’s been a success. I achieved this, so why do I still worry that I’ve failed?

In a rare fit of emotional intelligence, I’ve removed myself from all of these so-called “support” groups on social media, mostly because of the previously mentioned “Huns” – rather viewing their pseudo-support of each other as another form of judgement over the way that I have done things.

Along with life getting in the way it’s actually been one of the reasons that I’m struggling to write. I’m worried I’m going to fail at this too. Dr Google has reliably informed me that this is called impostor syndrome. I think I’ll leave that particular Pandora’s box closed for now. The existential crisis emanating from the idea of failing at impostor syndrome is too much for my tiny mind at this point.

I’m still doing OK. I’m still not gaining weight, and I’m even a solid three pounds down from a few weeks ago. I’m relatively happy about where I am, well, I would be if I could get the extra of me cut off of my body.

Vintage couture does not like bingo wings.