I’m the mother of two wonderful kids and the wife of a gentle and understanding husband. I’m fortunate in many ways: my children are doing fine in school, my spouse earns a solid income and I don’t have to work.

You’d think I didn’t have a care in the world. Sad to say, I do. In fact I have about 470 pounds of care because that’s the amount of extra weight I’m carrying around. My doctor says because of my height, I should weigh about 105 pounds instead of my current 575. He constantly lectures me on the need to shed pounds and warns me of dire consequences if I don’t.

I’m not stupid. I know he’s right. But it’s more complicated than that.

What I can’t tell my doctor is the real reason I’m desperately fat: Psychically-speaking, I’m an “emotional sponge” who absorbs everyone’s feelings. Every pang of sadness, anxiety or torment that my family is experiencing becomes my own. Which means that when neighborhood kids are teasing my daughter about her protruding front teeth or my son about his “girly” style of throwing a ball, I feel anguish right along with them.

And when I soak up those painful emotions, I look for a way to deal with them—a way that always leads to the kitchen. I stuff myself with whatever I can get my hands on. Like macaroni and cheese smothered in ranch dressing, meatball sandwiches stuffed with parmesan, chicken fried steak and deep-fried onion rings, baked potatoes bobbing in a lake of butter and sour cream, and my favorite desserts, like Baked Alaska or a baker’s dozen of assorted donuts, cream-filled and otherwise.

For me, eating too much is a healthy alternative to punching the lights out of the bullies who torment my kids. I have a bad temper, but it takes me so long to get up from my reinforced couch, that the punks are long gone by the time I reach the screen door. Which means that I won’t be on my way to jail in handcuffs for giving the little punks the thrashing they deserve.

Here’s another example: The other day, my intuition told me that my husband was being berated by his moronic supervisor in a staff meeting on the other side of town. I felt overcome by an array of disturbing emotions, including anger, embarrassment, hostility and, finally, fury. I was so upset I got on the phone and ordered the delivery of five all-meat pizzas. No, not for my beaten-down hubby and kids—for me. In fact, I wolfed them all down and hid the boxes before my beloved family walked in the front door (I made egg salad sandwiches for them).

I admit that chowing down is not the healthiest way to deal with being an “emotional sponge.” I’m certain, though, that there are many others who have the same disease. In the U.S., the obesity rate is higher than ever. One out of three adults is overweight. Now you know the real reason why. The extra pounds are merely a symptom. The problem is that we care too much. The weight of the world is on our shoulders, so to speak.

And the sorry way the world is going these days, I fear I’ll be tipping the scales at 1,000 lbs. or over in no time flat.

Straighten up, people! You’re killing me.