Losing Weight Makes Me Angry (aka "Scared")

I'm a hoarder. Have you seen that show? I am a hoarder. A FAT hoarder. I hoard my fat cells. They make me comfortable. They buffer me from the world. They hide me. Sure, it's not "normal" - and in my world, I'm around a lot of very fit people. I can't imagine the thoughts they have in their little heads about me and my girth. I don't want to go there, or I'd punch them in the face.

I am losing my hoard with each pound. My identity, my safety net, my comfort zone. Losing it.

I was looking at this:

61 gone, 79 more to go to 198

I had a surge of anger, realizing I was down 61 pounds from my highest weight. That I was 18 pounds away from the top of the mountain, the half-way point.

That's a pretty stupid thing to make a person angry. Progress makes you angry? What a nutball!

A few minutes later I realize that the anger is actual fear. Fear makes more sense. Fear. I think that's what got me last time, the time before. As much as I loved how I felt, I couldn't imagine going much farther. I have an uncanny knack lately for having great ideas, great intentions, and no motivation or drive to complete them.

I don't know what psychological roadblock that is, but it is really annoying me.

The anger that turned to fear turned back to anger.

I really am determined to get past this point (for once). To hit that marker of being half-way, and continue past it.

To battle through my own head.

I'm angry that it is so hard.

Just the idea of being smaller should be enough for me.
Just the idea of dropping below 258 should be motivation.
Just the idea of how fat I've been for years, the dangling carrot of not being THAT FAT GIRL - shouldn't that be enough?!

It should, by society's standards.