Four months ago, I was 340 pounds.
I smoked a pack a day and drank double digits nightly.
I didn’t exercise, didn’t care and didn’t really believe I could change.

Today, I walked a 5K.

This isn’t just a celebration post.
It’s an obituary.

THE OLD ME DIED TODAY

I took his cigarettes first.
He coughed through withdrawal, wheezing like a haunted accordion.
He begged. I didn’t listen.

I ripped the booze from his hands after that.
No more stupors.
No more blackout blessings.
Just long nights with no sedation—only memory, and the noise in his head.

I controlled his mouth.
He begged for cake.
I gave him discipline.
He clawed at the fridge like it owed him something.
But the kitchen stopped answering.

Then I made him move.
He panicked.
Ramped up the anxiety, tried to drown me in it.
Tight chest. Fast heart.
"You're dying", he whispered.
"Sit down. Stop."
But I didn’t.

He shrieked from the knees.
He gasped for air.
And I kept going.

He got smaller.
Quieter.
Sickly.

He followed me to the starting line,
gaunt and gray,
barely upright.
He staggered behind me with every step,
knees buckling,
lungs failing.
But he still begged.

"You’ve made your point,
This is far enough,
You don’t have to prove anything."

But I kept moving.

Mile by mile,
his voice got smaller.
His shadow grew thinner.
By the final stretch,
he was barely there—
a silhouette on life support.

When I crossed the finish line,
I didn’t raise my arms.
I didn’t look at him.
I pulled the plug.

And I’m just getting started.