Written around midnight after a really horrific reaction to high fructose corn syrup. I've been pondering this post for a while, particularly as I celebrated my two year post-surgery anniversary on January 20th. A lot has changed over the past two years.
That zombie-like moaning you’re perceiving at the edge of hearing is me, curled in a ball, in agony, having bid a violent farewell to my very healthy dinner—chicken breast, green peas, and brown rice. And Orangina.
Now, when Orangina hit the market a few decades ago, it was billed as an Italian soda. I always found it delicious—tart, slightly sweet, and not terribly fizzy. Post-gastric bypass, that not-fizziness is a good thing. HOWEVER… Orangina is now bottled in the States, and no longer comes in the lovely little dimpled bulbous bottles of my youth. It comes in Americanized soda bottles and is bottled by the Motts Corporation—y’know, the apple sauce people. Well, unbeknownst to me, they put high fructose corn syrup in the fucking Orangina. The label has a blue badge on it with “12% juice, 2% pulp,” creating an illusion that you just might be ingesting something healthy with your fizziness.
Nah.
I read the label AFTER the vomiting started. You’d think you could trust something bottled by the Mott’s people.
Nah.
There happened to be a bottle of their cinnamon apple sauce on the table; I read the label. Sure e-fucking-nough, HFCS. *slams head on the desk* Bastards.
I have written a post before about HFCS; I have called the Corn Growers Association a bunch of cunts. They are, and they’re poisoning us with that shit. I may not be a doctor or a chemist, but y’know, my reconstructed digestive system doesn’t lie. I can’t ingest that crap—I can tell when I’ve taken a large hit of it because I feel pukey—that awful feeling in the back of my throat, it’s like a crawling sensation, the feeling that whatever has gone down is heading back up.
I hate that. I cannot tell you, in any combination of words, how much I hate that. I cannot abide vomiting, and I’ve had to do a lot of it over the past two years because, hey, my new stomach is even fussier and more precious than the old one. The only good thing about throwing up right now is that, because the part of my stomach that produces acid is closed off from the pouch my surgeon created, the food tastes the same as it did going down. NOT a great advantage, but at least I'm not dealing with the burn in my throat from the acid. Just the pain from the heaving.
I don’t know if I’ve blogged about the gastric bypass before. I know I’ve talked about some of the aspects of it, but here, now, just a little over two years later, it seems like a good time to actually talk about it in depth.
I have no regrets about undergoing the surgery; when I first was told that the gastric bypass was the only surgical option—that I had far too much weight to lose for the lap band option (the way my superior surgeon put it is that if it’s 60 lbs or less, it’s about banding. If it’s more than that—and my goal is to lose over time 250 lbs or reach a size 16—it’s the gastric bypass)—I was incredibly depressed. I mean, I felt like a piece of shit. A very fat, very disgusting piece of shit, a complete utter loser, a waste of space on the planet, a piece of human detritus who had nothing to live for and no reason to exist. Fat does that to you. This society has no forgiveness for fat people. I’ve blogged about this before—the societal prejudice against the obese is horrific, and while I understand it, I don’t support it. Like every issue, there are multiple factors involved, and while, yeah, there are some seriously fat, lazy, stupid people out there, obesity is not a simple issue. Our food supply—our poisoned food supply—is at the heart of it. Our laziness as a society is also at the heart of it. And while I do not support the vegans and can never be a vegetarian, I do believe we need to be a hell of a lot more careful about what we put into our bodies, and it’s about fucking time America woke up and demanded the overhaul of the FDA.
Like the rest of our fucking government, those corporate cocksuckers have been bought and sold by the food industry years ago. Think I'm kidding? Do a little research on the rise of obesity, cancer, diabetes, ADD, and ADHD and you will find some very direct correlations with the processed food industry.
But I digress.
Anyway, the months leading up to surgery involved a lot of preparation, education and adjustments. My weight yoyoed ridiculously up and down by about 30 pounds; the only figure that has stuck in my mind is 455, which is what I weighed one week before surgery.
Yeah, you read that right, four hundred and fifty-five pounds. Size 36 or 38W, a 6X.
I don’t weigh that now. I’m still slightly north of 300, but not by much. Surgery, diet and exercise has seen to that. I can actually wear jeans again—size 24W, a size I hadn’t been able to get into in over 20 years.
Seriously.
Friday night, I tried on a bra that was a band size 42. I could get it clasped (and still breathe) without a bra extender. I haven’t been able to do that since high school. Yeah, I’m proud. (I’m still a DD cup, thank the Gods. I love my tits, and while I could bear being a C cup again, I’m happy with the DDs.) This means I can try on my 44 bras and they should fit! Huzzah! This time next year, I’ll be able to go to Victoria’s Secret and successfully shop there. May sound like a silly thing, but that’s going to be my three-year-anniversary treat: a Victoria’s Secret bra. Go me.
Last night, to Jim’s concert, I wore a size 26 shirt. That may not sound like a big thing (well, it IS a big thing, literally), but for someone who couldn’t even get a size 32 button-down shirt closed a few years ago, it’s a fucking miracle. I started cleaning out my fat clothes a couple of weeks ago, and all the size 30 jeans are going to Salvation Army. All the INCREDIBLY fat clothes are already in the bag, and the size 13 and 14 granny panties have been thrown out. I’m wearing a size 11 in undies; one more size to drop, and my shopping options open up immensely.
All of my size 26W jeans are getting loose; they go on tight after the wash, but within a couple of hours of wearing… waistband is loose. And I discovered last night I need to put a couple more holes in my belt.
This is how I’m measuring accomplishments—the size of my clothes. The other way is the extent of my workout in the gym. I found my old gym notebook last week; the diary with the chart I kept when Keith first started training me back in 2002. I can’t tell you folks what it felt like last week to get on to the elliptical and do four minutes and keep up a speed over 3 mph. Two years ago, I couldn’t walk without a cane and couldn’t walk more than a few feet without breaking into a flop sweat and not being able to breathe.
Now… even with two knees that need replacing, I can walk a block without a stick (I took my fancy silver-headed stick to the show the other night, but left it in the car). I can carry, lift, move… I don’t need to fear about being trapped and unable to get to where I need without assistance. All the damage hasn’t been undone, but so much of it is getting better. That’s all I care about.
Last year, my best friend—who hadn’t seen me in three years—couldn’t believe the change. “Oh, my God, Lee, you have a neck again! You have hips!” said to me in a voice filled with wonder. My other best friend, the first time I went up and outpaced her in a walk around Fort Anne… she had been convinced I was going to die if I didn’t go through the surgery (and she was right, to be honest).
I’ve been lucky. I’ve had enormous support from my friends and some of my family. Not everybody gets that.
So far, I’ve talked about the good stuff. Now… the bad stuff. Food is a problem. Food has always been my enemy; as much as I love the taste of good food, I am allergic and sensitive to so much (Christ, I wish I could eat seafood and broccoli and sweet potatoes!) that I never know what’s going to go down and stay, or what’s going to have me bent over and worshipping at the porcelain altar.
It sucks. I can’t eat high sugar or high fat foods, ditto high starch. I miss, miss, miss pasta and rice. Ditto most ice cream, and Ben & Jerry’s and Hagan Daas… *sigh* I kicked the soda habit as part of the prep for surgery, but fuck, I miss Pepsi. I miss Russell Stover Chocolates—just discovered that THEY use HFCS. Shit. I miss fried steak, french fries, potato chips, all that great tasting poisonous shit.
The weirdest thing that’s happened (and I’m feeling a bit strange talking about it) is the change in bowel movements. It used to be ginormous logs; now… well… now… errrrrrrmmm… there have been several occasions when I wanted to go and get my rune dictionary because it looked like I was shitting rune scripts. Seriously. It's utterly gross, but it's also fascinating in a really sick way. Vile. And we won't discuss the stench. You'd think bypassing the stomach acid would make things smell better.
Nah.
The other weird thing is that I can no longer burp like Barney Gumble. No more earth-shattering belches that earned me the respect of immature guys everywhere.
Alcohol… I’m the cheapest date on the planet. The good thing is that I get drunk VERY quickly. I am the only designated driver who can get hammered early in the evening and be sober enough to drive just by having some food, taking a piss, drinking a pint of water, and waiting an hour. For real. I get COMPLETELY faced on a single drink but will be sober within half an hour. And I don't dare drink alcohol without food on my stomach unless I want to turn scarlet and burn up. Stuff goes into me, gets processed immediately, and out it goes. This is how I know it was the HFCS and not the tequila from the night before: I'd already processed that out. Trust me on that one. *shudder* I found out just how quickly my body processes stuff a couple of years ago whilst drinking copious amounts of rum with Highlanders and I thought they were going to have to take me out of the Citadel in an ambulance to have my stomach pumped because I couldn't puke.
GREAT FUN!
So that's the story. It's been two years; I'm hoping to finish the last big push on the weight loss over the next nine months. I'd like to lose four more sizes by the time my birthday rolls around in November. I keep my ass hauling in the gym, I'll do it. Besides, now that I've accepted cougardom, I want a tighter body to chase the hot young things with. ;-)
Cheers, kids. Happy freakin' Monday. Is it April yet?
Showing posts with label gastric bypass. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gastric bypass. Show all posts
Monday, February 21, 2011
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
A Few Words On Being a Fat Chick (At Least for Now)
Note: Written around 3:00 a.m. on 29 Dec 2010; later on, I DID go to Planet Fitness and join; I have a training appointment next Wednesday morning once I'm back in Boston. GO ME! *wiggles bum*
Wow, the past three days have been weird. I’ve been in Writer Land which means writing until five or six a.m., sleeping all day, waking up, checking FB & Twitter, eating, putting on the headphones, playing a few games on the lappie, and then writing and editing, repeat… The blizzard that dropped a foot and a half plus of snow on the area gave me a good excuse, too, not to venture out, but the snow’s cleared, I have many, many chores to accomplish, and a trip to take on Thursday, so back to normal. Well, what passes for normal with me.
I’ve been playing with this blog post for a while; I’m coming up on the second anniversary of my surgery at the end of January, and being me, I’m evaluating my progress. I’m considering the idea of eventually turning this blog into a memoir thingie… possibly using bits of it for the one-woman show, as the old script is good, but dated, at least in its political content. Who knows? I have to get the querying done on Broom Closet first, once the agents reopen in January. FIRST PRIORITY (artistic, at least).
One of the themes that comes up in Broom Closet (because, honestly, Becca is just another aspect of me—she’s me if I had chosen to go the academic route all those years ago, and the acerbic voice you hear in this blog is pretty much the voice the Kinsale novels are written in) is her size. Now, Rebecca is not as large as I am, but because she’s in theatre and is NOT Vogue-tiny, she has definite body image issues. She’s about the same size as Kate Winslet in Titanic—think full-bloom English rose plus about 25 to 30 pounds—Victorian ideal, not quite Rubenesque, but definitely not American False Standard.
So the whole fat thing has been on my mind. Because while I am all about accepting and loving myself for who I am, I am also about being brutally honest and not falling into the Fat Acceptance trap. Because it is a trap and a load of horseshit.
I finally caught up with Jim and Eddie’s podcasts; with the holidaze, I’d downloaded but not had a chance to listen to episodes 4 and 5. So wrong… those two are just so FUCKING WRONG. Beautifully, horribly, piss-y’self-funny WRONG. Who knew Jim Jefferies is a comic book geek? And a Marvel boy, at that.
I am utterly amused.
One of the constant themes of the podcast is the weight issues of their hapless couch squatter, Jason. Jason’s around 260; no clue how tall he is; not the healthiest weight, and considering that Eddie is in fabulous shape, and Jim is definitely height/weight proportionate, Jason takes a lot of shit about his size. (It’s sad, actually—feel for the guy, but at the same time, totally understand why the guys fuck with him. The kid has talent and needs to get it together.)
Now, I am NOT small. Almost two years post-surgery, over 100 pounds have come off, and I’m shooting for at least another 100 before the end of this year (and after shoveling out the car from under a foot and a half of wet, heavy, post-blizzard snow, I’m happy to see the upper body strength has not diminished as much as I thought; ditto on the endurance. Huzzah!). I’m not a big fan of fat jokes—never have been, never will be. I find most of them incredibly, horribly mean and ugly, and I don’t like them. Partly because I see myself in them (whether it’s true or not), partly because I fear the other person sees me in them, and partly… yeah, they’re just mean.
I’ve mentioned (I think) that the one fat joke I’ve ever laughed at is from Jim Jefferies’s I Swear to God DVD—the bit about his mother. The joke is cruel—abso-fucking-lutely cruel—but hysterical because of the set-up: the chair. The Throne of Misery. (I have a story I’ll share with y’all later about my grandfather [actually have outlined a few Jack stories]; the inaugural one is going to be about the Day We Destroyed the Throne of Power. Picture three adults, a crowbar, an axe, a handsaw, and a Craftmatic recliner.)
Fat isn’t an easy issue. It’s really easy to pass judgment—the Fat = Lazy stereotype. I wish it was that simple. I know my story; I know all of the factors—some of them beyond my control, some of them completely within my control. What it boils down to for a lot of people is a combination of factors: medical, emotional, personal, physical, and environmental. The medical encompasses everything from prejudiced doctors (and if you think I’m kidding…), to inadequately tested drugs, to missed diagnoses, to improperly treated conditions. Emotional… abuse is the common factor in weight issues, whether you’re dealing with obesity or the other side. Rape is a major factor for women. Physical… again, undiagnosed or improperly diagnosed conditions, bad food (the FDA needs to be dismantled; ditto for the American food industry; READ YOUR LABELS, people, and if you can’t pronounce, DON’T EAT IT; the rise of the “obesity epidemic” can be directly connected to the rise of the pre-processed food industry); lack of exercise. Environmental… pollution, tainted food, tainted water, improper education, lack of access to good food (whether because of location or economic factors). Christ, it’s ridiculous. There’s a reason why I dream of owning a self-sustaining B&B/artists colony in Nova Scotia—I want to know where the hell my food is coming from. Sheesh.
All that being said, I am NOT making excuses for obesity. The bottom line is that every one of us is responsible for educating ourselves and taking care of our bodies. And taking responsibility for our lives.
This is also why I’m not a fan of the Fat Acceptance movement because honestly, it’s bullshit.
NOT because it’s a bad thing to accept yourself and your flaws—that’s a necessity. I hate our superficial, media-driven culture; I would love to see the women’s magazine industry get pulped—it does far more harm than good between pushing the crap nutrition, fake sex information, garbage fashion, and every #@$%^&*() fad diet known to man because hey, they’re in the pocket of their advertisers: the food industry (and check the labels on most of the shit they advertise and you’ll see why there’s an obesity epidemic in this country; ditto on ADD & ADHD, and probably most of the depression-related illnesses; one of these days, I will blog about food and healthy eating because it’s an obsession of mine), the drug industry (because, hey, we all need drugs! The legal ones, at least), the collectibles industry (because who doesn’t need the latest piece of Thomas Kincaide merchandise!), and feminine hygiene products. Oh, and make-up. Don’t forget the make-up.
*slams head on the desk*
I came of age in the 80’s, the most superficial decade of the 20th century. From the time I hit high school in 1981 up until I got into acting school in 1991, I wouldn’t go outside the door without makeup. And we won’t discuss clothes. Gaining weight had one positive influence on me: I got over the whole obsession with designer names and got more into quality. Legs had to be shaved at least twice a week; ditto on the pits. EVERYTHING had to be PERFECT. PERFECT. FLAWLESS. Because, dear Gods, I was so flawed.
These days… well, I don’t always remember the makeup, I will sometimes wear my glasses to work, and remember to shave about twice a month (more in the summer, obviously, and if there’s regular sex in the offing, because hey, there are some things that are just important). I’m always clean, always smell good (yummy, usually, thank you Lush), and dress if not for the runway, at least appropriately for the library. When I go out, I doll up. But not for work.
I grew up being told how pretty I’d be “if you would just lose weight.” This is not good for the self esteem. What really pissed me off was seeing a pic of myself at age 7 in my Brownie uniform (yeah, I was a Girl Scout; yes, I sold cookies; LEAVE IT ALONE): I was almost a foot taller than the younger cousin standing next to me (who was only 2 years younger) and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on me. I was big, yeah—tall, big frame, wide shoulders, etc., but so not fat. The fat didn’t come until I broke my leg at age 11, and that was going when I got into high school. Things took a turn for the worse (I’ve told my tragic story—excuse me, need to wipe up the sarcasm I’ve dripped all over the keyboard—before), the weight came back, dealt with a doctor on the take trying to force me on to a liquid diet that in part contributed to the kidney disease my mother is fighting right now and who refused to treat the thyroid disorder, went another 8 years, lost a baby, nearly died from the asthma, multiple lung infections treated with steroids—oh, prednisone, how I hate you—body systems out of control, yeah. In short, I gained more than double my body weight over the course of twenty years, woke the fuck up and said, hey, I’m gonna die if I don’t do something about this! got into a gastric bypass program (note, I said PROGRAM), did the homework and the groundwork, changed my eating habits, changed some of my thinking habits (some of them… it’s like being an alcoholic or a drug addict, there are addictive behaviors and ways of thinking that are a lifetime struggle to keep under control; sometimes you stay clean, sometimes you fall), and the weight has come off.
One of the things that I realized during this process is how some of my issues weren’t really my issues to begin with—they were my mother’s and the other women’s around me, but because I was a Nice Fat Girl suffering from severe Fat Girl Syndrome, I’d internalized their issues and made them mine. Which meant I had change my way of thinking about myself and my life. (See comment about addictive behavior.)
It’s not easy. Nothing worth having ever is, honestly. I’m pissed about some things—the fact that I currently live in a house with someone so completely unself-aware that she has no clue about the damage she’s doing to herself and attempting to do to me. I cannot tell you how many times I have talked her out of takeout—deep fried crap that leaves her sick every time (and me, vomiting. I have realized that the only Chinese place I can eat these days is Changsho or Asiana Fusion, and even then, I’m going to have to be careful). I can’t go near Burger King, McDonald’s, Wendy’s, KFried, Taco Bell, or any of those places (couldn’t do them before surgery, either, but it’s worse now). I can’t touch anything with high fructose corn syrup, high fat, high sugar—forget it. I even have to be careful with steak. Trying to explain this to my mother is like talking to a small child. And she keeps buying crap food and complains about the prices at places like Trader Joe’s. And yet… she loves my cooking. And doesn’t get sick from it. *shakes head* Whatever. I can’t understand how someone could go from being over 300 pounds down to 150, drop from a size 28/30 to a 10/12, and still act and think like she’s big as a house.
It brings me down, but I’m fighting it.
Now, I’m going into what I consider the “final” phase—the serious toning and conditioning, the weight lifting stuff I love so much and have missed. I know I’m beautiful; I know I’m hot. Gimme another year, and I’m going to have a body that shows it.
Why? Because a) I am sooooooooooooo vain. I really am. I LOVE being checked out. Nothing makes me feel better than a man checking out my tits. Seriously. One of the biggest ego lifts I’ve had recently happened a couple of months ago when a friend I hadn’t seen in years could NOT STOP checking me out, and this guy—who is so NOT a pig—could not stop looking at the Girls, cradled in a very sexy bra under a flattering shirt, all natural and still lovely. One of the best memories I have of Brit Boy #5 happened in Sbux last January; I made a comment about being hot (meaning temperature wise), and he looked me up and down, grinned, and said, “Yes, you are.” I do miss that man… every inch of him. And, no matter that I’ve let the performing slide, the bottom line is that I AM AN ACTOR. Worse, I’m a SHAKESPEAREAN actor—ham, thy name is Hamlet! And no one, no one, no one is going to cast a fat, 43-year-old neurotic except as a sidekick, and FUCK THAT. I am NO ONE’s sidekick, Batman. (Did I mention I’m an egomaniac?) I like being front and center, and while I am never going to be a size 4 (and never want to be; *shudder* with my frame, I’d look like I belong in a concentration camp photo), I know I can carry a size 16 with utter grace and dignity and will need to beat the men away. Even at this size, I still get hit on when I turn on The Shine.
I also like pretty clothes—HOT clothes. Pegged jeans. Low-cut blouses. Sexy, push-up bras. Leather boots with a nice little heel to them. Hey, I said I came of age in the 80’s; my tastes are a cross between 80’s hair metal, punk and goth with a heavy dash of the New Romantics in there; add the fact that I’ve been designing costumes for Shakespeare productions, Ren faire garb, and living history, I have a pretty eclectic sense of fashion that is so seriously stylish and sexy. And people, let’s be honest here—there are just some things a fat woman SHOULD NOT wear. Tube tops. *shudder* Belly shirts. *gak* SHORT skirts. *puke* Tight leather dresses. *choke* A little jiggle is one thing; however, if your body resembles a stack of Jello, DON’T EXPOSE MORE FLESH THAN NECESSARY! At least in public. It’s just not dignified.
Funny story (well, I think it’s funny)—I was driving one summer afternoon and coming through Union Square. I had someone else in the car (don’t remember who, but it was another chick). Now, Somerville Ave in Union Square in Somerville, for anyone who hasn’t driven through it, goes from two lanes at the lights by SCAT to three and then to four, all in the space of about 20 yards. If you’re coming around the corner, taking a left into this mess, it goes from four lanes going one way to four lanes going two ways, and then widens and narrows. In heavy afternoon traffic, you’re dealing with stupid pedestrians, buses, cop cars, fire trucks, 18-wheelers, taxis, and a lot of other drivers. Getting over into the right lane is not the easiest proposition, but I managed to do it.
And got honked at and heard the asshole honking yell, “Get in the right fucking lane, YA FAT BITCH!”
WRONG thing to say to me. I turn (it was summer and my windows were down) to yell something appropriately nasty to the bastard (because I HAD used my turn signal) and promptly laughed and said, “Who you callin’ fat, you tubby-assed ugly mother fucker!” because in the car next to me is sitting this FAT bastard—and I mean FAT, FAT, FAT tubby schlub with tits as big as mine wearing a TANK TOP—not a nice tank top, either, but a fucking white ribbed Hanes out-of-a-pack-of-three tank top, his rolls of fat spilling over the tops of whatever was covering his ass, and—the piece de resistance—A FUCKING BURGER KING WHOPPER DRIPPING SAUCE AND SHREDS OF LETTUCE IN HIS OTHER HAND.
AND HE LOOKED AT ME LIKE I WAS NUTS! I mean, this sonofacunt was EASILY as heavy as I was, and HE was calling ME fat? I BEG YOUR FUCKING PARDON, SHITHEAD? I mean, c’mon, even at my heaviest, I could find my cunt; you can’t tell me he could stand up to piss because there was no way, even if he was packing long, he could find his dick in all that.
And he was calling me fat.
“You better put down that sammich and get yourself a salad, FAT BOY,” I said. “And think before you open your mouth.”
The friend sitting next to me (like I said, don’t remember who it was except that it was one of my skinny, pretty friends) was staring at him and laughing.
I think that made him cry.
Cruel? Yeah. It was. But the fucker asked for it. I really have never understood that double standard—the fat guys who think they are smooth, hot and irresistible as-is, and yet feel they have every right to criticize women who aren’t even half their size. I love it when one of them tries to pull that shit on me. Love it. Because yes, I have made more than one of them cry. Or at least impotent for several weeks. Hypocrites… I so love to fuck with them.
But I digress.
The other reason—the IMPORTANT reason—I want to drop the weight is for my health. I was out shoveling for a good hour. I needed my asthma inhaler when I got in. OK, granted, it was 9th Circle cold out there, and I’d shoveled out a fucking Buick from under at least 18” of snow. The driver’s side, I might add—the side with the frozen, plowed-in snow. PLUS I cleared part of the driveway so St. Teresa can actually get from the house to the car. (Because I am NOT picking her ass up off the sidewalk. It’s great that I can deadlift 150 pounds; I just don’t NEED to deadlift 150 pounds of parent.) My back is NOT hurting right now. My arms aren’t hurting. I’m actually feeling pretty damn good after that little workout. Let me take a nice, long, hot shower and I’ll feel like a million fucking bucks. THAT is an ego boost; the knees have been giving me major gyp of late, and to be able to shovel and only be a little wheezy is AWESOME.
HOWEVER… I’m not out of the heart attack zone yet. I’m not fully out of the diabetes zone yet. I’m getting towards the age when they’re going to do mammograms every year, and breast cancer runs in my family. It’s hard enough to find a lump in a DD tit; I don’t need to make it any harder for them. I LIKE my tits—I don’t want to lose one to cancer, thanks. I don’t want to deal with the asthma again; I am hoping to have a child, and considering how I lost the last one—I caught a cold which turned into a lung infection; because my asthma wasn’t being correctly treated, my lungs started to shut down, and I ended up in the hospital for four days and lost the baby 11 days later. What I didn’t know at the time is that, during pregnancy, a woman’s immune system is compromised because so much of her body’s energy is going towards feeding and protecting the growing baby. I want my body in ultimate shape not only to have a healthy pregnancy (because at my age, it’s chancy enough), but also because any child issuing from these loins is going to be a demon.
I know this. I was a demon as a child (yeah, yeah, still am, I know); I am not attracted to boring men, either, so you know that the two highest qualifications for a potential partner are going to be intelligence and humor. If he doesn’t make me laugh and think, I don’t care how pretty he is. Combined with my intelligence, etc., this will mean there’s a good chance the resulting offspring will be genius-level intelligent. Evil genius level intelligent. (Or thoroughly retarded; who knows? It’s such a crapshoot.) I will need to be in tiptop shape to be able to keep up with the little bastard (and the way I’m going and the way I’m feeling about relationships… yeah, nuff said). I was walking before I was a year old. Running, I should say. I guess I didn’t even bother with creeping/crawling—I wanted to MOVE. When we lived in Missouri when I was two, I brought home animals—not sweet things like bunnies and kittens, but BIG things like killer German Shepherds and runaway horses. With ZERO fear. And considering that I refuse to be a helicopter parent—my little demon will do things like play in the dirt, build forts, and do things that I won’t find out about until much later because she/he will be intelligent enough to know that if she/he wants to continue to enjoy childhood, they better NOT tell me what exactly they’re getting up to. I was a bit of a ringleader, too—always thought up really cool games to play. Not safe, but cool. Yeah.
What does all this have to do with the Fat Acceptance movement? Well, like I said, the important reason I want to continue to lose/tone/shape up is for my health. I know that my thighs are never going to be perfect and slim. I know this. My ass… even if I go down to my “optimum” weight/BMI, my ass is going to be like my tits—a double handful. Or, as one of my muscle boy friends like to put it, a “cushion for the pushin’.” Which is FINE. I’m good with that—I like my sex to end rough. My nose is a bit too long, I have a little gap in my front teeth, and I’m missing the right index finger tip. I’m good with it. My white hair I cover up with Lush henna—glop it on, let it sit for a couple of hours, soak in the tub, wash it out… Lovely, soft, fairly natural looking auburn glow restored. My skin is in fairly good shape, thanks to Lush. My face… it’s my face. I like it. I’ll keep it. I like my eyes, too, despite the fact I’m blind as a bat. Feet are too big, but I can wear hi tops again, so I’m cool. And with the exception of Edwad, NO MAN has ever complained about my skills in bed—those with the balls to get beyond the tough bitch exterior have discovered a ready, eager and happy wench. And on the occasions I’ve gotten it wrong, I’ve been sweet enough to ask how to make it right. Because I am intelligent and genuinely enjoy getting my partner off.
I accept my flaws; I’m good with them. What I dislike about the current state of my body is about what it’s preventing me from doing—fucking hot, younger men; being able to chase a small child around; acting, performing and directing; and generally getting into very active trouble. I’ve never been “sporty,” but I do enjoy playing. Being too heavy prevents this. My knees can’t take running right now which really pisses me off because I LIKE to run. I like to do stupid things like play Frisbee. I’d like to try snowboarding. Not rollerskating. One broken leg is enough. And not bicycling—not here, at least. Trail riding, maybe. But not city cycling. I wouldn’t mind giving rock climbing a go; used to love that as a kid. If my lungs can handle the ocean again, I’d even like to try surfing.
In short, I want live life to the fullest. My birth certificate may say I’m 43, but my soul knows I’m still 16. I want my body back so I can live like that.
All of these people I see in reports on Fat Acceptance are NOT healthy—they are NOT able to live life to the fullest. They have serious health issues; they are in pain. Their lives are in danger because of their size.
And the people who “love” them… *shudder* Please. I have no issue with a man who likes a “real woman” or a woman with curves, or whatever euphemism you want to put in here. I do have an issue with chubby chasers—y’know, the guys who like really fat women. As you can imagine, I’ve known a fair few of ‘em, and honestly, I don’t like ‘em. Why? Because they’re either looking for a victim or a mother (or both). They’re looking for a woman with zero self esteem to take their shit out on her. I was married to an avowed chubby chaser; I’ve been involved with a few others. I’ll pass.
The women who go after fat men aren’t any better, either. I knew someone who specifically went for heavy men because they made her look so much prettier—because they had a man with zero self esteem who thought he was the luckiest guy in the world to have a pretty girl as his own, and he’d do anything to keep her, including give up his dignity, self respect, and his (metaphorical) sac.
Yeah.
Used to have friends like that, too—skinny chicks with zero self esteem who liked having a fat friend around because she looked so much better by comparison. Until, of course, the men realized I was the smarter, funnier, and more talented person, but I still didn’t get the guy because hey, they’d rather bang the skinny chick even though she treated him like shit and couldn’t give a blow job worth a damn.
So, I’m going to the gym this morning. Because, while I do love my gorgeous fabulous self and am perfectly capable of shoveling all that snow, I’d rather snare me a hot, younger babe to do it for me, and no way is that going to happen at this size. Besides, the gym… muscles… lots of sweet, sweaty muscles…
What do you expect from me? ALTRUISM?
A final note about the gastric bypass: a lot of magazine time was given to some famous folks who had this surgery. Some of them have been successful, some of them haven’t. This is how it goes with weight loss surgery. I was lucky—I considered it back in 2001 and didn’t go through with it (had a baaaad feeling about it; turned out that the first hospital I considered had a lot of unreported deaths from complications). I reconsidered in 2008 and this time, went to my mother’s surgeon. The program I went through took about a year from the first phone call to the surgery. I had to go through not only the hospital’s program—which involved visits to a nutritionist, a psychiatric evaluation, physical, multiple tests on my heart, liver, and everything else, attending the monthly support group, and visits to the surgeon to monitor my weight loss progress (damn little—my weight yo-yo’ed the entire time I was in the pre-surgery program)—but my insurance company also required enrollment in their program that involved biweekly phone calls with a life coach. Yeah. Overkill, but at the same time, not because not all hospitals have a program. The program is the key to success; the support group, the commitment, knowing that there is someplace to go for information and help if you’re feeling overwhelmed and alone. I don’t make it to a lot of the post-surgery meetings; my bad on that one. I get frustrated with repetition of information and the cliques, and honestly, I have really had enough of hospitals over the past six months. (Yep, there are cliques. Put more than ten people in a room, a clique will form.) Again, I was lucky—I went to the surgeon who is one of the pioneers of this surgery. He’s bloody amazing—a tough sonofabitch and quite possibly the most compassionate, committed, decent human being I’ve ever met. Thanks, Dr. Randall. You saved my life.
And if anyone reading this wants information or a recommendation, ping me. If you’re in the Boston area, go to Lawrence Memorial in Medford—their team is the BEST—all of your information is coordinated and shared so that none of the team is in the dark about your treatment and where you are in the process (surgeon, nutritionist, psychiatrist, office staff, hospital staff—finest care ANYWHERE). I was treated with consistent respect and compassion, a rare thing in the medical world.
Wow, the past three days have been weird. I’ve been in Writer Land which means writing until five or six a.m., sleeping all day, waking up, checking FB & Twitter, eating, putting on the headphones, playing a few games on the lappie, and then writing and editing, repeat… The blizzard that dropped a foot and a half plus of snow on the area gave me a good excuse, too, not to venture out, but the snow’s cleared, I have many, many chores to accomplish, and a trip to take on Thursday, so back to normal. Well, what passes for normal with me.
I’ve been playing with this blog post for a while; I’m coming up on the second anniversary of my surgery at the end of January, and being me, I’m evaluating my progress. I’m considering the idea of eventually turning this blog into a memoir thingie… possibly using bits of it for the one-woman show, as the old script is good, but dated, at least in its political content. Who knows? I have to get the querying done on Broom Closet first, once the agents reopen in January. FIRST PRIORITY (artistic, at least).
One of the themes that comes up in Broom Closet (because, honestly, Becca is just another aspect of me—she’s me if I had chosen to go the academic route all those years ago, and the acerbic voice you hear in this blog is pretty much the voice the Kinsale novels are written in) is her size. Now, Rebecca is not as large as I am, but because she’s in theatre and is NOT Vogue-tiny, she has definite body image issues. She’s about the same size as Kate Winslet in Titanic—think full-bloom English rose plus about 25 to 30 pounds—Victorian ideal, not quite Rubenesque, but definitely not American False Standard.
So the whole fat thing has been on my mind. Because while I am all about accepting and loving myself for who I am, I am also about being brutally honest and not falling into the Fat Acceptance trap. Because it is a trap and a load of horseshit.
I finally caught up with Jim and Eddie’s podcasts; with the holidaze, I’d downloaded but not had a chance to listen to episodes 4 and 5. So wrong… those two are just so FUCKING WRONG. Beautifully, horribly, piss-y’self-funny WRONG. Who knew Jim Jefferies is a comic book geek? And a Marvel boy, at that.
I am utterly amused.
One of the constant themes of the podcast is the weight issues of their hapless couch squatter, Jason. Jason’s around 260; no clue how tall he is; not the healthiest weight, and considering that Eddie is in fabulous shape, and Jim is definitely height/weight proportionate, Jason takes a lot of shit about his size. (It’s sad, actually—feel for the guy, but at the same time, totally understand why the guys fuck with him. The kid has talent and needs to get it together.)
Now, I am NOT small. Almost two years post-surgery, over 100 pounds have come off, and I’m shooting for at least another 100 before the end of this year (and after shoveling out the car from under a foot and a half of wet, heavy, post-blizzard snow, I’m happy to see the upper body strength has not diminished as much as I thought; ditto on the endurance. Huzzah!). I’m not a big fan of fat jokes—never have been, never will be. I find most of them incredibly, horribly mean and ugly, and I don’t like them. Partly because I see myself in them (whether it’s true or not), partly because I fear the other person sees me in them, and partly… yeah, they’re just mean.
I’ve mentioned (I think) that the one fat joke I’ve ever laughed at is from Jim Jefferies’s I Swear to God DVD—the bit about his mother. The joke is cruel—abso-fucking-lutely cruel—but hysterical because of the set-up: the chair. The Throne of Misery. (I have a story I’ll share with y’all later about my grandfather [actually have outlined a few Jack stories]; the inaugural one is going to be about the Day We Destroyed the Throne of Power. Picture three adults, a crowbar, an axe, a handsaw, and a Craftmatic recliner.)
Fat isn’t an easy issue. It’s really easy to pass judgment—the Fat = Lazy stereotype. I wish it was that simple. I know my story; I know all of the factors—some of them beyond my control, some of them completely within my control. What it boils down to for a lot of people is a combination of factors: medical, emotional, personal, physical, and environmental. The medical encompasses everything from prejudiced doctors (and if you think I’m kidding…), to inadequately tested drugs, to missed diagnoses, to improperly treated conditions. Emotional… abuse is the common factor in weight issues, whether you’re dealing with obesity or the other side. Rape is a major factor for women. Physical… again, undiagnosed or improperly diagnosed conditions, bad food (the FDA needs to be dismantled; ditto for the American food industry; READ YOUR LABELS, people, and if you can’t pronounce, DON’T EAT IT; the rise of the “obesity epidemic” can be directly connected to the rise of the pre-processed food industry); lack of exercise. Environmental… pollution, tainted food, tainted water, improper education, lack of access to good food (whether because of location or economic factors). Christ, it’s ridiculous. There’s a reason why I dream of owning a self-sustaining B&B/artists colony in Nova Scotia—I want to know where the hell my food is coming from. Sheesh.
All that being said, I am NOT making excuses for obesity. The bottom line is that every one of us is responsible for educating ourselves and taking care of our bodies. And taking responsibility for our lives.
This is also why I’m not a fan of the Fat Acceptance movement because honestly, it’s bullshit.
NOT because it’s a bad thing to accept yourself and your flaws—that’s a necessity. I hate our superficial, media-driven culture; I would love to see the women’s magazine industry get pulped—it does far more harm than good between pushing the crap nutrition, fake sex information, garbage fashion, and every #@$%^&*() fad diet known to man because hey, they’re in the pocket of their advertisers: the food industry (and check the labels on most of the shit they advertise and you’ll see why there’s an obesity epidemic in this country; ditto on ADD & ADHD, and probably most of the depression-related illnesses; one of these days, I will blog about food and healthy eating because it’s an obsession of mine), the drug industry (because, hey, we all need drugs! The legal ones, at least), the collectibles industry (because who doesn’t need the latest piece of Thomas Kincaide merchandise!), and feminine hygiene products. Oh, and make-up. Don’t forget the make-up.
*slams head on the desk*
I came of age in the 80’s, the most superficial decade of the 20th century. From the time I hit high school in 1981 up until I got into acting school in 1991, I wouldn’t go outside the door without makeup. And we won’t discuss clothes. Gaining weight had one positive influence on me: I got over the whole obsession with designer names and got more into quality. Legs had to be shaved at least twice a week; ditto on the pits. EVERYTHING had to be PERFECT. PERFECT. FLAWLESS. Because, dear Gods, I was so flawed.
These days… well, I don’t always remember the makeup, I will sometimes wear my glasses to work, and remember to shave about twice a month (more in the summer, obviously, and if there’s regular sex in the offing, because hey, there are some things that are just important). I’m always clean, always smell good (yummy, usually, thank you Lush), and dress if not for the runway, at least appropriately for the library. When I go out, I doll up. But not for work.
I grew up being told how pretty I’d be “if you would just lose weight.” This is not good for the self esteem. What really pissed me off was seeing a pic of myself at age 7 in my Brownie uniform (yeah, I was a Girl Scout; yes, I sold cookies; LEAVE IT ALONE): I was almost a foot taller than the younger cousin standing next to me (who was only 2 years younger) and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on me. I was big, yeah—tall, big frame, wide shoulders, etc., but so not fat. The fat didn’t come until I broke my leg at age 11, and that was going when I got into high school. Things took a turn for the worse (I’ve told my tragic story—excuse me, need to wipe up the sarcasm I’ve dripped all over the keyboard—before), the weight came back, dealt with a doctor on the take trying to force me on to a liquid diet that in part contributed to the kidney disease my mother is fighting right now and who refused to treat the thyroid disorder, went another 8 years, lost a baby, nearly died from the asthma, multiple lung infections treated with steroids—oh, prednisone, how I hate you—body systems out of control, yeah. In short, I gained more than double my body weight over the course of twenty years, woke the fuck up and said, hey, I’m gonna die if I don’t do something about this! got into a gastric bypass program (note, I said PROGRAM), did the homework and the groundwork, changed my eating habits, changed some of my thinking habits (some of them… it’s like being an alcoholic or a drug addict, there are addictive behaviors and ways of thinking that are a lifetime struggle to keep under control; sometimes you stay clean, sometimes you fall), and the weight has come off.
One of the things that I realized during this process is how some of my issues weren’t really my issues to begin with—they were my mother’s and the other women’s around me, but because I was a Nice Fat Girl suffering from severe Fat Girl Syndrome, I’d internalized their issues and made them mine. Which meant I had change my way of thinking about myself and my life. (See comment about addictive behavior.)
It’s not easy. Nothing worth having ever is, honestly. I’m pissed about some things—the fact that I currently live in a house with someone so completely unself-aware that she has no clue about the damage she’s doing to herself and attempting to do to me. I cannot tell you how many times I have talked her out of takeout—deep fried crap that leaves her sick every time (and me, vomiting. I have realized that the only Chinese place I can eat these days is Changsho or Asiana Fusion, and even then, I’m going to have to be careful). I can’t go near Burger King, McDonald’s, Wendy’s, KFried, Taco Bell, or any of those places (couldn’t do them before surgery, either, but it’s worse now). I can’t touch anything with high fructose corn syrup, high fat, high sugar—forget it. I even have to be careful with steak. Trying to explain this to my mother is like talking to a small child. And she keeps buying crap food and complains about the prices at places like Trader Joe’s. And yet… she loves my cooking. And doesn’t get sick from it. *shakes head* Whatever. I can’t understand how someone could go from being over 300 pounds down to 150, drop from a size 28/30 to a 10/12, and still act and think like she’s big as a house.
It brings me down, but I’m fighting it.
Now, I’m going into what I consider the “final” phase—the serious toning and conditioning, the weight lifting stuff I love so much and have missed. I know I’m beautiful; I know I’m hot. Gimme another year, and I’m going to have a body that shows it.
Why? Because a) I am sooooooooooooo vain. I really am. I LOVE being checked out. Nothing makes me feel better than a man checking out my tits. Seriously. One of the biggest ego lifts I’ve had recently happened a couple of months ago when a friend I hadn’t seen in years could NOT STOP checking me out, and this guy—who is so NOT a pig—could not stop looking at the Girls, cradled in a very sexy bra under a flattering shirt, all natural and still lovely. One of the best memories I have of Brit Boy #5 happened in Sbux last January; I made a comment about being hot (meaning temperature wise), and he looked me up and down, grinned, and said, “Yes, you are.” I do miss that man… every inch of him. And, no matter that I’ve let the performing slide, the bottom line is that I AM AN ACTOR. Worse, I’m a SHAKESPEAREAN actor—ham, thy name is Hamlet! And no one, no one, no one is going to cast a fat, 43-year-old neurotic except as a sidekick, and FUCK THAT. I am NO ONE’s sidekick, Batman. (Did I mention I’m an egomaniac?) I like being front and center, and while I am never going to be a size 4 (and never want to be; *shudder* with my frame, I’d look like I belong in a concentration camp photo), I know I can carry a size 16 with utter grace and dignity and will need to beat the men away. Even at this size, I still get hit on when I turn on The Shine.
I also like pretty clothes—HOT clothes. Pegged jeans. Low-cut blouses. Sexy, push-up bras. Leather boots with a nice little heel to them. Hey, I said I came of age in the 80’s; my tastes are a cross between 80’s hair metal, punk and goth with a heavy dash of the New Romantics in there; add the fact that I’ve been designing costumes for Shakespeare productions, Ren faire garb, and living history, I have a pretty eclectic sense of fashion that is so seriously stylish and sexy. And people, let’s be honest here—there are just some things a fat woman SHOULD NOT wear. Tube tops. *shudder* Belly shirts. *gak* SHORT skirts. *puke* Tight leather dresses. *choke* A little jiggle is one thing; however, if your body resembles a stack of Jello, DON’T EXPOSE MORE FLESH THAN NECESSARY! At least in public. It’s just not dignified.
Funny story (well, I think it’s funny)—I was driving one summer afternoon and coming through Union Square. I had someone else in the car (don’t remember who, but it was another chick). Now, Somerville Ave in Union Square in Somerville, for anyone who hasn’t driven through it, goes from two lanes at the lights by SCAT to three and then to four, all in the space of about 20 yards. If you’re coming around the corner, taking a left into this mess, it goes from four lanes going one way to four lanes going two ways, and then widens and narrows. In heavy afternoon traffic, you’re dealing with stupid pedestrians, buses, cop cars, fire trucks, 18-wheelers, taxis, and a lot of other drivers. Getting over into the right lane is not the easiest proposition, but I managed to do it.
And got honked at and heard the asshole honking yell, “Get in the right fucking lane, YA FAT BITCH!”
WRONG thing to say to me. I turn (it was summer and my windows were down) to yell something appropriately nasty to the bastard (because I HAD used my turn signal) and promptly laughed and said, “Who you callin’ fat, you tubby-assed ugly mother fucker!” because in the car next to me is sitting this FAT bastard—and I mean FAT, FAT, FAT tubby schlub with tits as big as mine wearing a TANK TOP—not a nice tank top, either, but a fucking white ribbed Hanes out-of-a-pack-of-three tank top, his rolls of fat spilling over the tops of whatever was covering his ass, and—the piece de resistance—A FUCKING BURGER KING WHOPPER DRIPPING SAUCE AND SHREDS OF LETTUCE IN HIS OTHER HAND.
AND HE LOOKED AT ME LIKE I WAS NUTS! I mean, this sonofacunt was EASILY as heavy as I was, and HE was calling ME fat? I BEG YOUR FUCKING PARDON, SHITHEAD? I mean, c’mon, even at my heaviest, I could find my cunt; you can’t tell me he could stand up to piss because there was no way, even if he was packing long, he could find his dick in all that.
And he was calling me fat.
“You better put down that sammich and get yourself a salad, FAT BOY,” I said. “And think before you open your mouth.”
The friend sitting next to me (like I said, don’t remember who it was except that it was one of my skinny, pretty friends) was staring at him and laughing.
I think that made him cry.
Cruel? Yeah. It was. But the fucker asked for it. I really have never understood that double standard—the fat guys who think they are smooth, hot and irresistible as-is, and yet feel they have every right to criticize women who aren’t even half their size. I love it when one of them tries to pull that shit on me. Love it. Because yes, I have made more than one of them cry. Or at least impotent for several weeks. Hypocrites… I so love to fuck with them.
But I digress.
The other reason—the IMPORTANT reason—I want to drop the weight is for my health. I was out shoveling for a good hour. I needed my asthma inhaler when I got in. OK, granted, it was 9th Circle cold out there, and I’d shoveled out a fucking Buick from under at least 18” of snow. The driver’s side, I might add—the side with the frozen, plowed-in snow. PLUS I cleared part of the driveway so St. Teresa can actually get from the house to the car. (Because I am NOT picking her ass up off the sidewalk. It’s great that I can deadlift 150 pounds; I just don’t NEED to deadlift 150 pounds of parent.) My back is NOT hurting right now. My arms aren’t hurting. I’m actually feeling pretty damn good after that little workout. Let me take a nice, long, hot shower and I’ll feel like a million fucking bucks. THAT is an ego boost; the knees have been giving me major gyp of late, and to be able to shovel and only be a little wheezy is AWESOME.
HOWEVER… I’m not out of the heart attack zone yet. I’m not fully out of the diabetes zone yet. I’m getting towards the age when they’re going to do mammograms every year, and breast cancer runs in my family. It’s hard enough to find a lump in a DD tit; I don’t need to make it any harder for them. I LIKE my tits—I don’t want to lose one to cancer, thanks. I don’t want to deal with the asthma again; I am hoping to have a child, and considering how I lost the last one—I caught a cold which turned into a lung infection; because my asthma wasn’t being correctly treated, my lungs started to shut down, and I ended up in the hospital for four days and lost the baby 11 days later. What I didn’t know at the time is that, during pregnancy, a woman’s immune system is compromised because so much of her body’s energy is going towards feeding and protecting the growing baby. I want my body in ultimate shape not only to have a healthy pregnancy (because at my age, it’s chancy enough), but also because any child issuing from these loins is going to be a demon.
I know this. I was a demon as a child (yeah, yeah, still am, I know); I am not attracted to boring men, either, so you know that the two highest qualifications for a potential partner are going to be intelligence and humor. If he doesn’t make me laugh and think, I don’t care how pretty he is. Combined with my intelligence, etc., this will mean there’s a good chance the resulting offspring will be genius-level intelligent. Evil genius level intelligent. (Or thoroughly retarded; who knows? It’s such a crapshoot.) I will need to be in tiptop shape to be able to keep up with the little bastard (and the way I’m going and the way I’m feeling about relationships… yeah, nuff said). I was walking before I was a year old. Running, I should say. I guess I didn’t even bother with creeping/crawling—I wanted to MOVE. When we lived in Missouri when I was two, I brought home animals—not sweet things like bunnies and kittens, but BIG things like killer German Shepherds and runaway horses. With ZERO fear. And considering that I refuse to be a helicopter parent—my little demon will do things like play in the dirt, build forts, and do things that I won’t find out about until much later because she/he will be intelligent enough to know that if she/he wants to continue to enjoy childhood, they better NOT tell me what exactly they’re getting up to. I was a bit of a ringleader, too—always thought up really cool games to play. Not safe, but cool. Yeah.
What does all this have to do with the Fat Acceptance movement? Well, like I said, the important reason I want to continue to lose/tone/shape up is for my health. I know that my thighs are never going to be perfect and slim. I know this. My ass… even if I go down to my “optimum” weight/BMI, my ass is going to be like my tits—a double handful. Or, as one of my muscle boy friends like to put it, a “cushion for the pushin’.” Which is FINE. I’m good with that—I like my sex to end rough. My nose is a bit too long, I have a little gap in my front teeth, and I’m missing the right index finger tip. I’m good with it. My white hair I cover up with Lush henna—glop it on, let it sit for a couple of hours, soak in the tub, wash it out… Lovely, soft, fairly natural looking auburn glow restored. My skin is in fairly good shape, thanks to Lush. My face… it’s my face. I like it. I’ll keep it. I like my eyes, too, despite the fact I’m blind as a bat. Feet are too big, but I can wear hi tops again, so I’m cool. And with the exception of Edwad, NO MAN has ever complained about my skills in bed—those with the balls to get beyond the tough bitch exterior have discovered a ready, eager and happy wench. And on the occasions I’ve gotten it wrong, I’ve been sweet enough to ask how to make it right. Because I am intelligent and genuinely enjoy getting my partner off.
I accept my flaws; I’m good with them. What I dislike about the current state of my body is about what it’s preventing me from doing—fucking hot, younger men; being able to chase a small child around; acting, performing and directing; and generally getting into very active trouble. I’ve never been “sporty,” but I do enjoy playing. Being too heavy prevents this. My knees can’t take running right now which really pisses me off because I LIKE to run. I like to do stupid things like play Frisbee. I’d like to try snowboarding. Not rollerskating. One broken leg is enough. And not bicycling—not here, at least. Trail riding, maybe. But not city cycling. I wouldn’t mind giving rock climbing a go; used to love that as a kid. If my lungs can handle the ocean again, I’d even like to try surfing.
In short, I want live life to the fullest. My birth certificate may say I’m 43, but my soul knows I’m still 16. I want my body back so I can live like that.
All of these people I see in reports on Fat Acceptance are NOT healthy—they are NOT able to live life to the fullest. They have serious health issues; they are in pain. Their lives are in danger because of their size.
And the people who “love” them… *shudder* Please. I have no issue with a man who likes a “real woman” or a woman with curves, or whatever euphemism you want to put in here. I do have an issue with chubby chasers—y’know, the guys who like really fat women. As you can imagine, I’ve known a fair few of ‘em, and honestly, I don’t like ‘em. Why? Because they’re either looking for a victim or a mother (or both). They’re looking for a woman with zero self esteem to take their shit out on her. I was married to an avowed chubby chaser; I’ve been involved with a few others. I’ll pass.
The women who go after fat men aren’t any better, either. I knew someone who specifically went for heavy men because they made her look so much prettier—because they had a man with zero self esteem who thought he was the luckiest guy in the world to have a pretty girl as his own, and he’d do anything to keep her, including give up his dignity, self respect, and his (metaphorical) sac.
Yeah.
Used to have friends like that, too—skinny chicks with zero self esteem who liked having a fat friend around because she looked so much better by comparison. Until, of course, the men realized I was the smarter, funnier, and more talented person, but I still didn’t get the guy because hey, they’d rather bang the skinny chick even though she treated him like shit and couldn’t give a blow job worth a damn.
So, I’m going to the gym this morning. Because, while I do love my gorgeous fabulous self and am perfectly capable of shoveling all that snow, I’d rather snare me a hot, younger babe to do it for me, and no way is that going to happen at this size. Besides, the gym… muscles… lots of sweet, sweaty muscles…
What do you expect from me? ALTRUISM?
A final note about the gastric bypass: a lot of magazine time was given to some famous folks who had this surgery. Some of them have been successful, some of them haven’t. This is how it goes with weight loss surgery. I was lucky—I considered it back in 2001 and didn’t go through with it (had a baaaad feeling about it; turned out that the first hospital I considered had a lot of unreported deaths from complications). I reconsidered in 2008 and this time, went to my mother’s surgeon. The program I went through took about a year from the first phone call to the surgery. I had to go through not only the hospital’s program—which involved visits to a nutritionist, a psychiatric evaluation, physical, multiple tests on my heart, liver, and everything else, attending the monthly support group, and visits to the surgeon to monitor my weight loss progress (damn little—my weight yo-yo’ed the entire time I was in the pre-surgery program)—but my insurance company also required enrollment in their program that involved biweekly phone calls with a life coach. Yeah. Overkill, but at the same time, not because not all hospitals have a program. The program is the key to success; the support group, the commitment, knowing that there is someplace to go for information and help if you’re feeling overwhelmed and alone. I don’t make it to a lot of the post-surgery meetings; my bad on that one. I get frustrated with repetition of information and the cliques, and honestly, I have really had enough of hospitals over the past six months. (Yep, there are cliques. Put more than ten people in a room, a clique will form.) Again, I was lucky—I went to the surgeon who is one of the pioneers of this surgery. He’s bloody amazing—a tough sonofabitch and quite possibly the most compassionate, committed, decent human being I’ve ever met. Thanks, Dr. Randall. You saved my life.
And if anyone reading this wants information or a recommendation, ping me. If you’re in the Boston area, go to Lawrence Memorial in Medford—their team is the BEST—all of your information is coordinated and shared so that none of the team is in the dark about your treatment and where you are in the process (surgeon, nutritionist, psychiatrist, office staff, hospital staff—finest care ANYWHERE). I was treated with consistent respect and compassion, a rare thing in the medical world.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Shooting the Black Dog, Part 7: Mother's Little Helper
Well, I may have jumped the gun on the bipolar issue, and I gave myself the clue I may have needed to solve the problem.
I commented earlier in one of the Black Dog posts about medication--the fear of the loss of efficacy of the meds because it has happened before. You want hell... being at war with your own mind and every thing that you try to fix it stops working after a while... it's why the idea of needing the Xanax more has had me freaking. What had me even more upset was the idea that the Effexor's efficacy may be earing off. I've been on Effexor XR since 2003--it's been the best fucking drug I have ever taken for this mess that is my brain.
Well, I had a little brainstorm the other day. My doctor upped my dosage last February after the suicide attempt, from 150 mg to 225 mg., and lucky me, they didn't make a caplet that size, just a horse pill. So, after a bit of an argy-bargy with the doctor, I got him to prescribe three capsules per day to make up the dosage. (Didn't help that the fucking 226 mg horse pills, even though generic, weren't covered by my worthless health plan, so instead of $10/month for the generic 75 mg or 150 mg capsules, it would have been $45. I shit you not. May not sound like a lot of money, but when you add in the money for the inhaler, the Singular, the levoxyl, the other inhalers... the supplements that are no longer covered by the fucking tax-free account... Yeah, the meds cost keep climbing.)
One of the things that can happen with broken switches in the head, because they are chemically activated, is that too much medication is as dangerous as too little. I have gone through this before, usually with the thyroid.
Yeah, the thyroid. That which has fucked up SO MUCH. *slams head on the desk*
So, if the thyroid--which has dicked things around so badly before--has stabilized, perhaps, just perhaps, thought my thinking brain, perhaps it's the OTHER head med that's off now. *BING* Lightbulb appears over the redhead. And because of the way my med is being administered, I can do this without involving the doctor to see if the hypothesis is correct. (And go back to the higher dosage if the lower causes problems.)
And the other part of this is that I may have to vary the dosage at different times of the month. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am the living chemistry experiment, and with the exception of the occasional indulgence of marijuana, all of it legal.
Sad. But better than another attempt to check out. I came too close to success last time, and succeeding would mean failing at world domination, and that would utterly fuck things up. ;-)
It's not even that I fear Death; I met him once, back in '95, while I was dealing with the aftermath of the miscarriage. The ex was being his completely utter dickhead of a self, I was going through hell, housesitting for a friend (which was what kept me from checking out--the thought that she'd have to come home to a corpse. Just a complete violation of hospitality, and when having to chose between relieving extreme soul pain by violating the most ancient of courtesies and honoring hospitality, well, I just had to take the course of honor. Because I'm funny that way). Anyway, the episode got so bad, I started hallucinating. Or perhaps I was seeing what was really there, who knows? I know enough about the subconscious and filters and the human need to deny reality to believe that anything that can unhinge the modern mind is screened out, which would make the mad people really the sane people because they had a real grasp of what was there, but then... that's crazy talk. ;-)
ANYWAY... at the lowest moment, when I was right on the edge, Death was there in the doorway, waiting like a lover, arms open, a figure of light, and I knew that if I stepped into his embrace, there would be no more pain. It would all be over--the pain would finally end. And this was the only lover I could ever trust 150% not to hurt me. All I had to do was surrender.
I am not good at surrender. You may have figured that out about me. While I do have a submissive side, I am definitely on the equal footing/dominant side of the sexual spectrum. I wanted to cross the room--I wanted the release he was offering. But I also knew the price of surrender. I have never, ever been so perfectly poised in balance between life and death as I was at that moment. Of course, I chose to fight on. Because I'm like that--I never take the easy way.
I can't say I regret the choice; there will come a day when he returns, and it will be my time to surrender, and I hope I'm at the age where it's been so long since I've had it, I welcome the attention of a young man. ;-)
(Yes, I find my own drama highly amusing. I have to. If I didn't, I'D BE DEAD. So laugh along with me, will ya?)
But I digress...
Since the gastric bypass, I am not supposed to take large tablets because my stomach tissue is a bit delicate: the bottom part, where all the acid lives (the stuff that breaks down everything), is cut off, so it's harder to digest things. It's why reputable gastric bypass programs require you to go to a nutritionist and attend support group meetings--so you learn the proper way to eat after surgery so you can stick to the program and actually have some weight loss success, not just in the short term, but so you can keep the blubber off.
Of course, with my elevated stress level over the past few months, things have fallen by the wayside. Like it or lump it, I'm going to have to cut back my coffee intake. (My internal four-year-old is on the floor, throwing a massive tantrum at the moment, kicking and screaming, and insisting this will not happen. I will spank the little bastard and knock 'im into line. Because it's my INNER four-year-old. :-) I'm also going to have to get back on an eating schedule--I've skipped breakfast too much of late, completely gotten off my Greek yogurt kick, and we won't talk about all the missed supplements.
Argh.
And the insomnia. And the headaches. And the mood swings.
Argh.
And it's winter time, so all I am craving is comfort food. Luckily, my idea of comfort food is stuff that I've worked pretty hard to adapt to healthier versions, and I happen to be an amazing fucking cook, if I do say so myself. (Can I just say how flattered I was when one of my baristas, when I was talking about holiday baking, raved about the Guinness mac 'n' cheese--an experiment, the very first attempt. You know you're good when... ;-) *sigh* So it's time to put up a bit pot of beef stew and Guinness mac & cheese (with three cheeses & Greek yogurt mixed in, and don't forget the grilled chicken... now I'm hungry, dammit).
So, my game plan... because I am not going to let the Black Dog win...
1. Cutting back the Effexor dosage to 150 mg a day & taking it ON SCHEDULE.
2. Remembering my multi-vitamin. ON SCHEDULE.
3. Eating a PROPER breakfast. BEFORE 11:00 a.m.
4. Ass BACK in the gym.
Four easily achievable things, the combination of which should get me down to a size 20 by April and a smaller bra band. Provided I can get my brain to function through the fog of anxiety and residual depression and stress. *slams head on the desk* So tired of being told how strong I am, and that if anyone can conquer this, it's me. I'd be good with Prince Charming rescuing me right now, even if it was just for a weekend and a long, hard shagging. Seriously. I'd never be comfortable with a permanent rescue--I really prefer standing on my own two feet, and don't trust anyone trying to solve my problems for me. Life doesn't work that way.
But I'd take a short-term rescue... a little pampering... possibly involving a hot tub, champagne (optional), lots of Lush bath bombs & massage bars, a king size bed and a lot of sex... Yeah, that would work.
*sigh* IF ONLY!
Although... going to the gym means exposure to... muscles. Muscles. On men. Oooooooooo... *swoon* *dreamy smile* Sweaty, hard working muscles... Lickable, kissable, delicious MUSCLES... OK... motivation acquired. Most women, offer 'em chocolate for motivation. Me? SCENERY. Loooooooove muscular arms... forearms and biceps. And thighs... *sigh* Rugby Boy... The thighs on that man... (we won't talk about his other parts and the great ink; there's a reason I kept the pics. And the vid!) *swoon* Yeah, I can forego carbs for the joy of muscles. And the chance of getting a nice set of 'em nekkid!
I commented earlier in one of the Black Dog posts about medication--the fear of the loss of efficacy of the meds because it has happened before. You want hell... being at war with your own mind and every thing that you try to fix it stops working after a while... it's why the idea of needing the Xanax more has had me freaking. What had me even more upset was the idea that the Effexor's efficacy may be earing off. I've been on Effexor XR since 2003--it's been the best fucking drug I have ever taken for this mess that is my brain.
Well, I had a little brainstorm the other day. My doctor upped my dosage last February after the suicide attempt, from 150 mg to 225 mg., and lucky me, they didn't make a caplet that size, just a horse pill. So, after a bit of an argy-bargy with the doctor, I got him to prescribe three capsules per day to make up the dosage. (Didn't help that the fucking 226 mg horse pills, even though generic, weren't covered by my worthless health plan, so instead of $10/month for the generic 75 mg or 150 mg capsules, it would have been $45. I shit you not. May not sound like a lot of money, but when you add in the money for the inhaler, the Singular, the levoxyl, the other inhalers... the supplements that are no longer covered by the fucking tax-free account... Yeah, the meds cost keep climbing.)
One of the things that can happen with broken switches in the head, because they are chemically activated, is that too much medication is as dangerous as too little. I have gone through this before, usually with the thyroid.
Yeah, the thyroid. That which has fucked up SO MUCH. *slams head on the desk*
So, if the thyroid--which has dicked things around so badly before--has stabilized, perhaps, just perhaps, thought my thinking brain, perhaps it's the OTHER head med that's off now. *BING* Lightbulb appears over the redhead. And because of the way my med is being administered, I can do this without involving the doctor to see if the hypothesis is correct. (And go back to the higher dosage if the lower causes problems.)
And the other part of this is that I may have to vary the dosage at different times of the month. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am the living chemistry experiment, and with the exception of the occasional indulgence of marijuana, all of it legal.
Sad. But better than another attempt to check out. I came too close to success last time, and succeeding would mean failing at world domination, and that would utterly fuck things up. ;-)
It's not even that I fear Death; I met him once, back in '95, while I was dealing with the aftermath of the miscarriage. The ex was being his completely utter dickhead of a self, I was going through hell, housesitting for a friend (which was what kept me from checking out--the thought that she'd have to come home to a corpse. Just a complete violation of hospitality, and when having to chose between relieving extreme soul pain by violating the most ancient of courtesies and honoring hospitality, well, I just had to take the course of honor. Because I'm funny that way). Anyway, the episode got so bad, I started hallucinating. Or perhaps I was seeing what was really there, who knows? I know enough about the subconscious and filters and the human need to deny reality to believe that anything that can unhinge the modern mind is screened out, which would make the mad people really the sane people because they had a real grasp of what was there, but then... that's crazy talk. ;-)
ANYWAY... at the lowest moment, when I was right on the edge, Death was there in the doorway, waiting like a lover, arms open, a figure of light, and I knew that if I stepped into his embrace, there would be no more pain. It would all be over--the pain would finally end. And this was the only lover I could ever trust 150% not to hurt me. All I had to do was surrender.
I am not good at surrender. You may have figured that out about me. While I do have a submissive side, I am definitely on the equal footing/dominant side of the sexual spectrum. I wanted to cross the room--I wanted the release he was offering. But I also knew the price of surrender. I have never, ever been so perfectly poised in balance between life and death as I was at that moment. Of course, I chose to fight on. Because I'm like that--I never take the easy way.
I can't say I regret the choice; there will come a day when he returns, and it will be my time to surrender, and I hope I'm at the age where it's been so long since I've had it, I welcome the attention of a young man. ;-)
(Yes, I find my own drama highly amusing. I have to. If I didn't, I'D BE DEAD. So laugh along with me, will ya?)
But I digress...
Since the gastric bypass, I am not supposed to take large tablets because my stomach tissue is a bit delicate: the bottom part, where all the acid lives (the stuff that breaks down everything), is cut off, so it's harder to digest things. It's why reputable gastric bypass programs require you to go to a nutritionist and attend support group meetings--so you learn the proper way to eat after surgery so you can stick to the program and actually have some weight loss success, not just in the short term, but so you can keep the blubber off.
Of course, with my elevated stress level over the past few months, things have fallen by the wayside. Like it or lump it, I'm going to have to cut back my coffee intake. (My internal four-year-old is on the floor, throwing a massive tantrum at the moment, kicking and screaming, and insisting this will not happen. I will spank the little bastard and knock 'im into line. Because it's my INNER four-year-old. :-) I'm also going to have to get back on an eating schedule--I've skipped breakfast too much of late, completely gotten off my Greek yogurt kick, and we won't talk about all the missed supplements.
Argh.
And the insomnia. And the headaches. And the mood swings.
Argh.
And it's winter time, so all I am craving is comfort food. Luckily, my idea of comfort food is stuff that I've worked pretty hard to adapt to healthier versions, and I happen to be an amazing fucking cook, if I do say so myself. (Can I just say how flattered I was when one of my baristas, when I was talking about holiday baking, raved about the Guinness mac 'n' cheese--an experiment, the very first attempt. You know you're good when... ;-) *sigh* So it's time to put up a bit pot of beef stew and Guinness mac & cheese (with three cheeses & Greek yogurt mixed in, and don't forget the grilled chicken... now I'm hungry, dammit).
So, my game plan... because I am not going to let the Black Dog win...
1. Cutting back the Effexor dosage to 150 mg a day & taking it ON SCHEDULE.
2. Remembering my multi-vitamin. ON SCHEDULE.
3. Eating a PROPER breakfast. BEFORE 11:00 a.m.
4. Ass BACK in the gym.
Four easily achievable things, the combination of which should get me down to a size 20 by April and a smaller bra band. Provided I can get my brain to function through the fog of anxiety and residual depression and stress. *slams head on the desk* So tired of being told how strong I am, and that if anyone can conquer this, it's me. I'd be good with Prince Charming rescuing me right now, even if it was just for a weekend and a long, hard shagging. Seriously. I'd never be comfortable with a permanent rescue--I really prefer standing on my own two feet, and don't trust anyone trying to solve my problems for me. Life doesn't work that way.
But I'd take a short-term rescue... a little pampering... possibly involving a hot tub, champagne (optional), lots of Lush bath bombs & massage bars, a king size bed and a lot of sex... Yeah, that would work.
*sigh* IF ONLY!
Although... going to the gym means exposure to... muscles. Muscles. On men. Oooooooooo... *swoon* *dreamy smile* Sweaty, hard working muscles... Lickable, kissable, delicious MUSCLES... OK... motivation acquired. Most women, offer 'em chocolate for motivation. Me? SCENERY. Loooooooove muscular arms... forearms and biceps. And thighs... *sigh* Rugby Boy... The thighs on that man... (we won't talk about his other parts and the great ink; there's a reason I kept the pics. And the vid!) *swoon* Yeah, I can forego carbs for the joy of muscles. And the chance of getting a nice set of 'em nekkid!
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Well, that blew today's plans...
Greetings, oh, my cherished blurkers, from the emergency room of Lawrence Memorial Hospital in Medford, MA.
NOT where I'd planned to start my day--I was planning to go to the gym when I woke this morning, get back in the swing of lifting again, trim down the flab and tone up the muscles again, get the body beautiful and drop at least four more pants sizes.
For once, something utterly inane is not on the television--Quigley Down Under, an amusing film that I'm tuning out thanks to the Silversun Pickups on the lappie. I like Tom Selleck--likable fella, not a half bad actor, and of course, Alan Rickman playing an asshole. That man is still hotter than sin... it's the voice. I would have gladly ripped off the Ken doll bit of makeup in Dogma and shagged him so long as he kept talking.
Yes, I am distracting myself. It's 2:30 p.m. I was woken from a sound sleep around 11ish because Ma fell in the kitchen. Full face plant. I mean, flat down. "Help me!" I'm trying to get up, get out of the tangle of blankets and put on pj bottoms, while shaking off sleep and the cat. Let me tell you, lifting someone off their face is not easy. It's fuck-all difficult. It's a good thing she only weighs about 150ish. Maybe less at this point, who knows. I couldn't have done it before her gastric bypass in 2000.
Yeah, fat runs in the family, at least over on this stout branch of it. She's dropped over 200 pounds since her surgery; the kidney disease over the past few years has helped her to keep it off and lose more, which is a good thing, considering she still tries to eat like a fat person. *sigh* It's really annoying. Seh actually misses "her best friend" i.e. food. I don't get that part of things. Food has never been my friend--I mean, I'm allergic to so much stuff, things that are both good and bad for me, and so much makes me puke and always has--do you know how frustrating it is not to be able to eat seafood, fish, sweet potatoes? IT SUCKS. All this good stuff that is so good for the body, and it just makes me either vomit or stink like a garbage pail in high summer.
And Mum... Mum still sees herself as fat and ugly. *shakes head* Sad.
Anyway, she did a full face plant. I had to shift all kinds of crap in the kitchen (surprise, surprise. The cleaners are going to be ordered to finish that shithole next and forget the rest of the house until it's completely cleared and organized. I am NOT doing this again; strong as I am and back to the gym as I'm going, my back and knees don't like deadlifting in non-ideal situations that do not have soft mats and safety stops built in), lift her to her knees, and then get her on her feet.
And she promptly stomped on mine, making me scream. "TOES! MY TOES!" And she pitched over the kitchen table, with me trying to hold her steady from behind to keep her from slipping back to the floor while trying to get my naked feet out from under her Frankensteinish stompers, screaming in pain, and catching sight of the blood on the floor.
I really hate the site of blood. It stresses me out.
Finally managed to get her into the chair and saw her face. *sigh* HUGE goose egg over her right eye--gigantic--cut and bleeding all over. I said, "You're going to the hospital. Let me get dressed."
Ten minutes later, I'm back down from the bathroom, she's got a tissue held to her head to catch the blood. Got her to wash it off while I dressed, got nagged by the cat whilst I dressed because she wanted the bed back, got out there to find she'd taped a bit of gauze over it and fed the cat.
Progress.
"You're still going to the hospital."
"Yeah, after I looked at it, Lee, I think I should."
More progress.
So by the time we got to LMH, her eye is swollen to the point it looks like a purple bag of blood, and she's walking incredibly unsteady. She's had a CAT scan by now, and I'm sitting here, writing and waiting, dealing with the reek of old lady perfume drowning out the stench of hangover & fresh alcohol on one of the gang members sleeping at the kids table across from me. Forgot my writing music, so I'm listening to the Silversuns. Hoping the new Zune will have arrived so I can fully load my music up and download the stuff I want and am missing.
And yeah, I'm hoping Mum is all right--no concussion or stitches. It would be a relief. But it also means I have to talk to her doc on Monday because this is bad fall number two in a week. And she needs a cognitive functioning test. I'm trying not to think too much about it because I will start weeping. I love my mother, but I don't see things getting better. It's not fair, not for her or me.
But then, life never is.
NOT where I'd planned to start my day--I was planning to go to the gym when I woke this morning, get back in the swing of lifting again, trim down the flab and tone up the muscles again, get the body beautiful and drop at least four more pants sizes.
For once, something utterly inane is not on the television--Quigley Down Under, an amusing film that I'm tuning out thanks to the Silversun Pickups on the lappie. I like Tom Selleck--likable fella, not a half bad actor, and of course, Alan Rickman playing an asshole. That man is still hotter than sin... it's the voice. I would have gladly ripped off the Ken doll bit of makeup in Dogma and shagged him so long as he kept talking.
Yes, I am distracting myself. It's 2:30 p.m. I was woken from a sound sleep around 11ish because Ma fell in the kitchen. Full face plant. I mean, flat down. "Help me!" I'm trying to get up, get out of the tangle of blankets and put on pj bottoms, while shaking off sleep and the cat. Let me tell you, lifting someone off their face is not easy. It's fuck-all difficult. It's a good thing she only weighs about 150ish. Maybe less at this point, who knows. I couldn't have done it before her gastric bypass in 2000.
Yeah, fat runs in the family, at least over on this stout branch of it. She's dropped over 200 pounds since her surgery; the kidney disease over the past few years has helped her to keep it off and lose more, which is a good thing, considering she still tries to eat like a fat person. *sigh* It's really annoying. Seh actually misses "her best friend" i.e. food. I don't get that part of things. Food has never been my friend--I mean, I'm allergic to so much stuff, things that are both good and bad for me, and so much makes me puke and always has--do you know how frustrating it is not to be able to eat seafood, fish, sweet potatoes? IT SUCKS. All this good stuff that is so good for the body, and it just makes me either vomit or stink like a garbage pail in high summer.
And Mum... Mum still sees herself as fat and ugly. *shakes head* Sad.
Anyway, she did a full face plant. I had to shift all kinds of crap in the kitchen (surprise, surprise. The cleaners are going to be ordered to finish that shithole next and forget the rest of the house until it's completely cleared and organized. I am NOT doing this again; strong as I am and back to the gym as I'm going, my back and knees don't like deadlifting in non-ideal situations that do not have soft mats and safety stops built in), lift her to her knees, and then get her on her feet.
And she promptly stomped on mine, making me scream. "TOES! MY TOES!" And she pitched over the kitchen table, with me trying to hold her steady from behind to keep her from slipping back to the floor while trying to get my naked feet out from under her Frankensteinish stompers, screaming in pain, and catching sight of the blood on the floor.
I really hate the site of blood. It stresses me out.
Finally managed to get her into the chair and saw her face. *sigh* HUGE goose egg over her right eye--gigantic--cut and bleeding all over. I said, "You're going to the hospital. Let me get dressed."
Ten minutes later, I'm back down from the bathroom, she's got a tissue held to her head to catch the blood. Got her to wash it off while I dressed, got nagged by the cat whilst I dressed because she wanted the bed back, got out there to find she'd taped a bit of gauze over it and fed the cat.
Progress.
"You're still going to the hospital."
"Yeah, after I looked at it, Lee, I think I should."
More progress.
So by the time we got to LMH, her eye is swollen to the point it looks like a purple bag of blood, and she's walking incredibly unsteady. She's had a CAT scan by now, and I'm sitting here, writing and waiting, dealing with the reek of old lady perfume drowning out the stench of hangover & fresh alcohol on one of the gang members sleeping at the kids table across from me. Forgot my writing music, so I'm listening to the Silversuns. Hoping the new Zune will have arrived so I can fully load my music up and download the stuff I want and am missing.
And yeah, I'm hoping Mum is all right--no concussion or stitches. It would be a relief. But it also means I have to talk to her doc on Monday because this is bad fall number two in a week. And she needs a cognitive functioning test. I'm trying not to think too much about it because I will start weeping. I love my mother, but I don't see things getting better. It's not fair, not for her or me.
But then, life never is.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
The Bottle and the Damage Done
The siren song that is your madness
Holds a truth I can't erase...
You let me down, I said it...
- "The God of Wine," Third Eye Blind*
alcoholic: One who has accepted they have a drinking problem and is dealing/has dealt with it
drunk: Fucking loser who has a drinking problem, blames everyone else and keeps drinking, destroying their own life and the lives of everyone they possibly can.
Alcoholism, addiction and their attending madness have been a part of my life since conception. My father is a drunk; has been for all of his adult life. All three of my mother's brothers have/had drinking problems (two of them are dead; sadly, the youngest is still alive and making life fucking miserable). My ex-husband and three long-term ex-boyfriends were all drunks. I had a brief flirtation with the bottle about 9 years ago--partied a little too hard for about eight months and then got really bored with it.
Drugs... with the exception of a little weed every now and then, I've never bothered with them. They scare the fuck out of me--most of my idols and Celebricrushes have battled the bottle and/or drugs, so I learned my fear from them: I learned from the stories of Peter O'Toole and David Bowie back in high school to keep my nose clean and behave myself (granted, Peter O'Toole is one of the greatest actors on the planet; and Bowie made incredible fucking music when he was a mess, but his best album came after he cleaned up [Scary Monsters & Super Creeps, if you must know, although the Berlin Trilogy has some spectacular songs]). John Belushi's OD had a major affect on me through Robin Williams--his comment made on a talk show (Donahue, I think it was), to the effect of, "He was a bull. What was that going to do to a little guy like me?" [paraphrased from memory; it's been 30ish years]
All of the people I've really admired have had addiction issues--all of the comedians especially. Carlin... Carlin was famous for his drug use, and so much better for quitting (although he was another one who kept a little weed around). I think I was the only person in the audience who cheered when Jim Jefferies said he'd been sober for a month in New York. The two guys I was sitting next to had said he was awesome fucked up; I've seen enough clips of him fucked up--he was better sober. Sharper, more on point (and he looked fabulous). And honestly? Enlarged liver and shitting blood... no. Not something I would wish on anyone but my mother's younger brother. That comment snapped people, but not really. I mean... WTF? Haven't we lost enough great comedians to substances? Stay sober, Jim--stay alive, keep making people laugh, and get your ass cast in a movie that will actually showcase your acting talent. That's an Imperial Edict, dammit. ;-) Stay sober, and the next time you're in Boston, I will buy you dinner (yes, a beautiful chick DOES know how to pick up a check), and unlike most of the men I've dated, I won't expect sex afterwards.
Hmmmm... that also reminds me... need to think about finding an agent for Keith J.'s script. Anyone know anyone looking for a film script for the best buddy comedy ever written? I could kill him to this day for that--boring me to tears with all the proposals for action adventure CRAP, and all the time he had a near-perfect comedy script on his shelf. I love the guy like a brother, but there are days... *smack* And that's why we're still friends.
But I digress...
Back to substances... The only thing I've ever really had going for me was my brain. I mean, my body has never worked properly, and even my brain is pretty fucked up with the chemistry issues, but I've always known I had intelligence, creativity and talent, and all of those relied on me keeping my brain up and running properly. The one thing drugs fuck up completely is your head, and this goes for the legal as well as the illegal.
Now, I take anti-anxiety meds daily. They are necessary, unfortunately--if I don't take them, my panic attacks get pretty ugly. During the PMDD, they get even uglier and require the additional support of Xanax. I take a low dose of that--just half a tab of whatever I was given because if I take the whole thing, I fall asleep instantly. I drink rarely these days and have to be careful about what I drink because certain things will send me off the deep end--I don't touch Jack Daniels any more (and I used to be legendary for dancin' with Mr. Damage), can't touch most grape wines unless they're fizzy (don't ask me, I don't get it), beer is baaaaaad (although the coffee porter was OK--must be the crap-ass American piss), and me and absinthe never liked each other. The gastric bypass made drinking even dicier because if there's no food in my stomach, I go bright red and burn up--seriously, I have to ice my face. I've been told it's like a diabetic reaction to alcohol, and considering the fact that my sugar & fat filter is no longer connected, I get it.
At one point in my life, I was misdiagnosed as bipolar II. THAT was entertaining. NOT. Before the diagnosis, to deal with the weight that was packing on for no apparent reason, my GP put me on Prozac. I slept for two weeks and felt AWESOME afterwards. Then we tried Zoloft: no reaction until PMS kicked in and I went homicidal. Entertaining... I chased a guy all the way across Somerville with the intent of pulling him out of his car and dribbling his head off the pavement like a basketball for cutting me off. A little voice inside my head kept trying to get my attention and tell me that it was a bad idea. It took three miles for me to register that voice, and I was traveling down Somerville Ave--consider the number of traffic lights, pedestrians, and other cars I had to deal with in that three miles. Yeah. Zoloft... NOT a good idea. Then came the lower does of Prozac--sleeping without the happiness afterwards. Then shipped off to a psychopharmocologist who evaluated me as bipolar II. Paxil was my friend, and then Depakote got added, and then the doses went up... and don't forget the emergency Xanax, and then the anti-psychotics when the Xanax stopped working for the panic attacks... that was about the time I started keeping at least a bud around because three tokes did what all the meds in the world couldn't--calmed me down and kept me from slashing my wrists.
Of course, I ended up in a blanket of cotton wool about three feet thick, lost my sex drive, and didn't function as an artist. Due to circumstances, I ended up having to stop all meds, cleaned out my system, and then... started over again. Once the hypothyroidism was diagnosed and under control, the anxiety disorder became apparent and that was treated, and the bipolar was off the table.
Whew. But I still need the meds.
I hate them. I hate what I'm like without them even more. I have gotten so attuned to my body that I can feel the chemical changes--I know when my thyroid is off, I know when my hormones surge--there's a little bump mid-month, then a BIG bump about five days before the bleeding starts--and I know what real depression is.
I also know when it's safe for me to drink, and when it's NOT safe because it will start a chemical downward spiral that will end with me trying to slash open my veins and die. I am long past the days when I want my friends babysitting me to make sure I don't shuffle off the mortal coil under my own steam; it's humiliating and exhausting, and eventually, it loses you friends. So, legal or not, I guess I'm a drug addict like damn near most of America these days (at least, those of us who have health insurance with prescription drug coverage).
But I'm not a drunk, and the drugs I take are to keep me sane and functioning. It's a very different thing from the animal I'm dealing with at home. Now, Moron has been sober since the end of January when I had his ass clapped into rehab. At the court hearing, the court shrink--who it was obvious he thought he had flim-flammed, FUCK! HE IS SO GODSDAMNED STUPID!--who evaluated him stated that he had stated that he had "tried cocaine a couple of weeks before."
Right.
The reality--as we found out from his friends--is that he had a full-blown coke habit. It explained quite a bit, like why the flooze he had been trying to bed was calling in a panic, the impotence issues (there are some things NO ONE should know about older members of their family), and of course, the paranoia.
Now, understand that I really DON'T like cocaine. I've never tried it, but I really DON'T LIKE what it does to people who use it constantly--the paranoia, the itchiness, the suspicion, the coldness, the one-step-removed from the world. I don't like it. I have run away almost every time I've had it near me; I have never forgotten a coke-fueled ride home from a friend--beautiful girl to look at, smart, funny but coked out of her head and telling me how much she envied my ability to say no and stay away from it, that she and the hottest guy in the office [whom I had been crushing on up until that minute] were fucking each other and getting high all the time and were both broke and losing everything because of it; I was 18. I didn't need any other warning or example.
Alcohol is a familiar demon--I understand alcohol-fueled violence and stupidity--been surrounded by it all my life--I know the signs, the stench, the clues, and I know how to deal with it. I can kick a drunk's ass easily--let them think they're leading the dance, fake 'em out, step aside, let the punch fly by, and then step in under the guard, and WHAM! Easy-peasy, down he goes. Coke adds something to the mix that makes a drunk think he's invincible--it adds a persistence, an unstoppability that means the one punch won't take them down. It sharpens the shit the alcohol usually dims.
Once I found out that coke was in the mix, I knew why he was overheating and freaking out. And why he swung on me (and yes, as empowering as it is to know I have the PTSD under control, I still wish I had crushed his windpipe. Life would be very complicated, yet so much simpler). See, Moron learned back in '02 what happens when you swing on me--I humiliate your ass. He backed his car into mine so it looked like I had those special shocks to make the car bounce. Several times. And then, when I ran over to his car to get him to stop, he started throwing punches out the window. I caught the punches in my hands and forced his arms back, bending back his fingers.
He's now trying to blame the surgeries he's had for his hands on me--because of that, I caused all of his problems with arthritis in his hands. It's not he was a telephone lineman in the worst weather for 25 years; it's not that I was defending myself and not allowing him to pummel me--he had a right to do that.
*slams head on the desk*
Can I just state for the record that I am done? Beyond done. I had a conversation with Elder Services today because I can't take the madness any longer. Mum doesn't make it any better--she just accepts life with an addict. And I wonder why it took me so many years to get healthy, why it took me so long to wake up and realize that no one has to endure being abused. I lost it last night; she spent fuck knows how much in the grocery store to buy a shitload of stuff that we have no room for. He strong-armed her into buying a small refridgerator with an ice maker--vital for a drunk who sucks back cocktails, not necessary for two women who like to cook and need storage space. I cannot take the hoarding, I cannot take the addiction, I cannot fucking take it any longer.
So I called Elder Services. I'm getting her a lawyer to deal with the foreclosure issue; Elder Services is going to get referrals for help with the house. I've contacted her kidney doctor for a shrink. The bills will go on a schedule; there will be a calendar posted on the fridge for her fucking doctor appointments so I don't get surprises sprung on me.
As for the Moron... argh. I have one possible ace up my sleeve for that, and Gods help him if I call that one in because his ass will be nailed to a wall. There is one person who, if he finds out what that idiot has been doing, will set his ass so straight, it will be practically set in cement.
Cement might work, too, come to think of it... Nah. Considering how toxic his body is at this point, I really wouldn't want to poison the river any further.
Any advice anyone has to offer, I'll take at this point.
ADDENDUM: Just wanted to add that I DO NOT condemn drinking and recreational drugs in general. If you've got a handle on it (and I know a lot of people who can do a little and be fine), no worries. Hey, I like my shot of silver tequila (with five slices of lime because it's going to take me 10 sips to get it down and sea salt on the side) and the occasional toke still. It's just the idiots whose bodies can't handle it and who are destroying lives... *sigh*
* Today's epigram is from the first album by Third Eye Blind--amazing friggin' album from start to finish, only two songs that I didn't bother to put on my Zune. Lyrically astounding, musically fabulous... if only their other albums had been as good. This song is incredible, especially if you've ever had a drunk in your life. You will know it and weep to it.
Holds a truth I can't erase...
You let me down, I said it...
- "The God of Wine," Third Eye Blind*
alcoholic: One who has accepted they have a drinking problem and is dealing/has dealt with it
drunk: Fucking loser who has a drinking problem, blames everyone else and keeps drinking, destroying their own life and the lives of everyone they possibly can.
Alcoholism, addiction and their attending madness have been a part of my life since conception. My father is a drunk; has been for all of his adult life. All three of my mother's brothers have/had drinking problems (two of them are dead; sadly, the youngest is still alive and making life fucking miserable). My ex-husband and three long-term ex-boyfriends were all drunks. I had a brief flirtation with the bottle about 9 years ago--partied a little too hard for about eight months and then got really bored with it.
Drugs... with the exception of a little weed every now and then, I've never bothered with them. They scare the fuck out of me--most of my idols and Celebricrushes have battled the bottle and/or drugs, so I learned my fear from them: I learned from the stories of Peter O'Toole and David Bowie back in high school to keep my nose clean and behave myself (granted, Peter O'Toole is one of the greatest actors on the planet; and Bowie made incredible fucking music when he was a mess, but his best album came after he cleaned up [Scary Monsters & Super Creeps, if you must know, although the Berlin Trilogy has some spectacular songs]). John Belushi's OD had a major affect on me through Robin Williams--his comment made on a talk show (Donahue, I think it was), to the effect of, "He was a bull. What was that going to do to a little guy like me?" [paraphrased from memory; it's been 30ish years]
All of the people I've really admired have had addiction issues--all of the comedians especially. Carlin... Carlin was famous for his drug use, and so much better for quitting (although he was another one who kept a little weed around). I think I was the only person in the audience who cheered when Jim Jefferies said he'd been sober for a month in New York. The two guys I was sitting next to had said he was awesome fucked up; I've seen enough clips of him fucked up--he was better sober. Sharper, more on point (and he looked fabulous). And honestly? Enlarged liver and shitting blood... no. Not something I would wish on anyone but my mother's younger brother. That comment snapped people, but not really. I mean... WTF? Haven't we lost enough great comedians to substances? Stay sober, Jim--stay alive, keep making people laugh, and get your ass cast in a movie that will actually showcase your acting talent. That's an Imperial Edict, dammit. ;-) Stay sober, and the next time you're in Boston, I will buy you dinner (yes, a beautiful chick DOES know how to pick up a check), and unlike most of the men I've dated, I won't expect sex afterwards.
Hmmmm... that also reminds me... need to think about finding an agent for Keith J.'s script. Anyone know anyone looking for a film script for the best buddy comedy ever written? I could kill him to this day for that--boring me to tears with all the proposals for action adventure CRAP, and all the time he had a near-perfect comedy script on his shelf. I love the guy like a brother, but there are days... *smack* And that's why we're still friends.
But I digress...
Back to substances... The only thing I've ever really had going for me was my brain. I mean, my body has never worked properly, and even my brain is pretty fucked up with the chemistry issues, but I've always known I had intelligence, creativity and talent, and all of those relied on me keeping my brain up and running properly. The one thing drugs fuck up completely is your head, and this goes for the legal as well as the illegal.
Now, I take anti-anxiety meds daily. They are necessary, unfortunately--if I don't take them, my panic attacks get pretty ugly. During the PMDD, they get even uglier and require the additional support of Xanax. I take a low dose of that--just half a tab of whatever I was given because if I take the whole thing, I fall asleep instantly. I drink rarely these days and have to be careful about what I drink because certain things will send me off the deep end--I don't touch Jack Daniels any more (and I used to be legendary for dancin' with Mr. Damage), can't touch most grape wines unless they're fizzy (don't ask me, I don't get it), beer is baaaaaad (although the coffee porter was OK--must be the crap-ass American piss), and me and absinthe never liked each other. The gastric bypass made drinking even dicier because if there's no food in my stomach, I go bright red and burn up--seriously, I have to ice my face. I've been told it's like a diabetic reaction to alcohol, and considering the fact that my sugar & fat filter is no longer connected, I get it.
At one point in my life, I was misdiagnosed as bipolar II. THAT was entertaining. NOT. Before the diagnosis, to deal with the weight that was packing on for no apparent reason, my GP put me on Prozac. I slept for two weeks and felt AWESOME afterwards. Then we tried Zoloft: no reaction until PMS kicked in and I went homicidal. Entertaining... I chased a guy all the way across Somerville with the intent of pulling him out of his car and dribbling his head off the pavement like a basketball for cutting me off. A little voice inside my head kept trying to get my attention and tell me that it was a bad idea. It took three miles for me to register that voice, and I was traveling down Somerville Ave--consider the number of traffic lights, pedestrians, and other cars I had to deal with in that three miles. Yeah. Zoloft... NOT a good idea. Then came the lower does of Prozac--sleeping without the happiness afterwards. Then shipped off to a psychopharmocologist who evaluated me as bipolar II. Paxil was my friend, and then Depakote got added, and then the doses went up... and don't forget the emergency Xanax, and then the anti-psychotics when the Xanax stopped working for the panic attacks... that was about the time I started keeping at least a bud around because three tokes did what all the meds in the world couldn't--calmed me down and kept me from slashing my wrists.
Of course, I ended up in a blanket of cotton wool about three feet thick, lost my sex drive, and didn't function as an artist. Due to circumstances, I ended up having to stop all meds, cleaned out my system, and then... started over again. Once the hypothyroidism was diagnosed and under control, the anxiety disorder became apparent and that was treated, and the bipolar was off the table.
Whew. But I still need the meds.
I hate them. I hate what I'm like without them even more. I have gotten so attuned to my body that I can feel the chemical changes--I know when my thyroid is off, I know when my hormones surge--there's a little bump mid-month, then a BIG bump about five days before the bleeding starts--and I know what real depression is.
I also know when it's safe for me to drink, and when it's NOT safe because it will start a chemical downward spiral that will end with me trying to slash open my veins and die. I am long past the days when I want my friends babysitting me to make sure I don't shuffle off the mortal coil under my own steam; it's humiliating and exhausting, and eventually, it loses you friends. So, legal or not, I guess I'm a drug addict like damn near most of America these days (at least, those of us who have health insurance with prescription drug coverage).
But I'm not a drunk, and the drugs I take are to keep me sane and functioning. It's a very different thing from the animal I'm dealing with at home. Now, Moron has been sober since the end of January when I had his ass clapped into rehab. At the court hearing, the court shrink--who it was obvious he thought he had flim-flammed, FUCK! HE IS SO GODSDAMNED STUPID!--who evaluated him stated that he had stated that he had "tried cocaine a couple of weeks before."
Right.
The reality--as we found out from his friends--is that he had a full-blown coke habit. It explained quite a bit, like why the flooze he had been trying to bed was calling in a panic, the impotence issues (there are some things NO ONE should know about older members of their family), and of course, the paranoia.
Now, understand that I really DON'T like cocaine. I've never tried it, but I really DON'T LIKE what it does to people who use it constantly--the paranoia, the itchiness, the suspicion, the coldness, the one-step-removed from the world. I don't like it. I have run away almost every time I've had it near me; I have never forgotten a coke-fueled ride home from a friend--beautiful girl to look at, smart, funny but coked out of her head and telling me how much she envied my ability to say no and stay away from it, that she and the hottest guy in the office [whom I had been crushing on up until that minute] were fucking each other and getting high all the time and were both broke and losing everything because of it; I was 18. I didn't need any other warning or example.
Alcohol is a familiar demon--I understand alcohol-fueled violence and stupidity--been surrounded by it all my life--I know the signs, the stench, the clues, and I know how to deal with it. I can kick a drunk's ass easily--let them think they're leading the dance, fake 'em out, step aside, let the punch fly by, and then step in under the guard, and WHAM! Easy-peasy, down he goes. Coke adds something to the mix that makes a drunk think he's invincible--it adds a persistence, an unstoppability that means the one punch won't take them down. It sharpens the shit the alcohol usually dims.
Once I found out that coke was in the mix, I knew why he was overheating and freaking out. And why he swung on me (and yes, as empowering as it is to know I have the PTSD under control, I still wish I had crushed his windpipe. Life would be very complicated, yet so much simpler). See, Moron learned back in '02 what happens when you swing on me--I humiliate your ass. He backed his car into mine so it looked like I had those special shocks to make the car bounce. Several times. And then, when I ran over to his car to get him to stop, he started throwing punches out the window. I caught the punches in my hands and forced his arms back, bending back his fingers.
He's now trying to blame the surgeries he's had for his hands on me--because of that, I caused all of his problems with arthritis in his hands. It's not he was a telephone lineman in the worst weather for 25 years; it's not that I was defending myself and not allowing him to pummel me--he had a right to do that.
*slams head on the desk*
Can I just state for the record that I am done? Beyond done. I had a conversation with Elder Services today because I can't take the madness any longer. Mum doesn't make it any better--she just accepts life with an addict. And I wonder why it took me so many years to get healthy, why it took me so long to wake up and realize that no one has to endure being abused. I lost it last night; she spent fuck knows how much in the grocery store to buy a shitload of stuff that we have no room for. He strong-armed her into buying a small refridgerator with an ice maker--vital for a drunk who sucks back cocktails, not necessary for two women who like to cook and need storage space. I cannot take the hoarding, I cannot take the addiction, I cannot fucking take it any longer.
So I called Elder Services. I'm getting her a lawyer to deal with the foreclosure issue; Elder Services is going to get referrals for help with the house. I've contacted her kidney doctor for a shrink. The bills will go on a schedule; there will be a calendar posted on the fridge for her fucking doctor appointments so I don't get surprises sprung on me.
As for the Moron... argh. I have one possible ace up my sleeve for that, and Gods help him if I call that one in because his ass will be nailed to a wall. There is one person who, if he finds out what that idiot has been doing, will set his ass so straight, it will be practically set in cement.
Cement might work, too, come to think of it... Nah. Considering how toxic his body is at this point, I really wouldn't want to poison the river any further.
Any advice anyone has to offer, I'll take at this point.
ADDENDUM: Just wanted to add that I DO NOT condemn drinking and recreational drugs in general. If you've got a handle on it (and I know a lot of people who can do a little and be fine), no worries. Hey, I like my shot of silver tequila (with five slices of lime because it's going to take me 10 sips to get it down and sea salt on the side) and the occasional toke still. It's just the idiots whose bodies can't handle it and who are destroying lives... *sigh*
* Today's epigram is from the first album by Third Eye Blind--amazing friggin' album from start to finish, only two songs that I didn't bother to put on my Zune. Lyrically astounding, musically fabulous... if only their other albums had been as good. This song is incredible, especially if you've ever had a drunk in your life. You will know it and weep to it.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
It's too damn early
To be awake, never mind functioning.
Although I don't know if I consider blogging functioning.
So, today, I'm off home. Thrills. Joy. Oh, extremes of ecstasy.
Oh, pardon... I seem to have dripped sarcasm all over the lappie. Thankfully, it doesn't cause short circuits or get stuck in the keys.
I have never looked less forward to a trip than this one. I don't want to go home.
Now, this is nothing new--I go through this every time I come up here. I love this place, and when I'm here, I know I'm where I belong. Boston may be home, but Nova Scotia is Home.
Doesn't help that I'm grumpy from last night, either. Started out grand--great lazy day yesterday which Vicki actually got to enjoy (I don't know how she does it. I am in awe), a final Frenchy's run with a couple of interesting scores that will go to ebay, I got to prep dinner (fabulous roast chicken and sides), and finally got to see the Russell Crowe Robin Hood. (LOVED IT! Gods, that man is so damn hot--talent, beauty, and fuck me blind, can he sit a horse! They grows 'em pretty down there in the Antipodes... rough, ready and rrrrroowwwww!) Made toddies for Vicki and I, we had a snack, and then... shakes and tremors, followed by hard retching.
Thank you, high fructose corn syrup. *slams head on the desk*
One of the after-effects of the gastric bypass is that I can't do anything heavily sweetened with high fructose corn syrup. Now, I had started avoiding that a while ago--after I kicked the Pepsi habit, I tried to cut it completely out of my diet. Since surgery, I can't go near the shit. A tiny bit won't hurt, but anything that is heavily sweetened with it will make me very, very, VERY ill.
Like last night.
I read labels when I buy things. I have to--I'm allergic to so much shit, I have to be careful. What I didn't know is that in Canada, HFCS is called "glucose-fructose syrup." *slams head on the desk*
I can't abide vomiting. Seriously. It's the worst physical experience on the planet--I find it utterly humiliating to be hunched over a toilet, my entire body spasming, retching, and just wanting to fucking die. I've had people attempt to comfort me in this moment, only to have the door of the bathroom shoved closed--I can't stand for anyone to ever see me like that. It's so utterly undignified.
Last night was so bad, I was crying at the end of it. Wretched feeling.
So I'd like to say to the Corn Refiners Association: Go fuck yourself. HFCS is NOT SAFE for human consumption--it is NOT the same as sugar, you lying fucks. It's garbage, a poison, and has been directly SCIENTIFICALLY linked to the obesity epidemic, and you bastards should be taken out and shot for the commercials you're running on television promoting the shit. I don't get my information about HFCS from my hairdresser--I've gotten it directly from my body. Thank you for ruining my last night with my best friend; instead of hanging on the couch, talking and laughing until 4 a.m., she ended up fussing over me (bless you, Vicki, you are a saint) like a mother hen until I fell asleep (after the tremors stopped from the sugar shock).
And I leave you on that very grumpy note, my darling blurkers. Don't believe me? Just take a troll around Google; you will find a great deal of information on the dangers of consuming HFCS. If you're having weight issues, start reading your labels, and I'm willing to wager that if you cut the crap out, once you're over the withdrawal, you will start seeing a difference. One hundred pounds and dropping later...
Off to pack.
Much love,
Your Empress
Although I don't know if I consider blogging functioning.
So, today, I'm off home. Thrills. Joy. Oh, extremes of ecstasy.
Oh, pardon... I seem to have dripped sarcasm all over the lappie. Thankfully, it doesn't cause short circuits or get stuck in the keys.
I have never looked less forward to a trip than this one. I don't want to go home.
Now, this is nothing new--I go through this every time I come up here. I love this place, and when I'm here, I know I'm where I belong. Boston may be home, but Nova Scotia is Home.
Doesn't help that I'm grumpy from last night, either. Started out grand--great lazy day yesterday which Vicki actually got to enjoy (I don't know how she does it. I am in awe), a final Frenchy's run with a couple of interesting scores that will go to ebay, I got to prep dinner (fabulous roast chicken and sides), and finally got to see the Russell Crowe Robin Hood. (LOVED IT! Gods, that man is so damn hot--talent, beauty, and fuck me blind, can he sit a horse! They grows 'em pretty down there in the Antipodes... rough, ready and rrrrroowwwww!) Made toddies for Vicki and I, we had a snack, and then... shakes and tremors, followed by hard retching.
Thank you, high fructose corn syrup. *slams head on the desk*
One of the after-effects of the gastric bypass is that I can't do anything heavily sweetened with high fructose corn syrup. Now, I had started avoiding that a while ago--after I kicked the Pepsi habit, I tried to cut it completely out of my diet. Since surgery, I can't go near the shit. A tiny bit won't hurt, but anything that is heavily sweetened with it will make me very, very, VERY ill.
Like last night.
I read labels when I buy things. I have to--I'm allergic to so much shit, I have to be careful. What I didn't know is that in Canada, HFCS is called "glucose-fructose syrup." *slams head on the desk*
I can't abide vomiting. Seriously. It's the worst physical experience on the planet--I find it utterly humiliating to be hunched over a toilet, my entire body spasming, retching, and just wanting to fucking die. I've had people attempt to comfort me in this moment, only to have the door of the bathroom shoved closed--I can't stand for anyone to ever see me like that. It's so utterly undignified.
Last night was so bad, I was crying at the end of it. Wretched feeling.
So I'd like to say to the Corn Refiners Association: Go fuck yourself. HFCS is NOT SAFE for human consumption--it is NOT the same as sugar, you lying fucks. It's garbage, a poison, and has been directly SCIENTIFICALLY linked to the obesity epidemic, and you bastards should be taken out and shot for the commercials you're running on television promoting the shit. I don't get my information about HFCS from my hairdresser--I've gotten it directly from my body. Thank you for ruining my last night with my best friend; instead of hanging on the couch, talking and laughing until 4 a.m., she ended up fussing over me (bless you, Vicki, you are a saint) like a mother hen until I fell asleep (after the tremors stopped from the sugar shock).
And I leave you on that very grumpy note, my darling blurkers. Don't believe me? Just take a troll around Google; you will find a great deal of information on the dangers of consuming HFCS. If you're having weight issues, start reading your labels, and I'm willing to wager that if you cut the crap out, once you're over the withdrawal, you will start seeing a difference. One hundred pounds and dropping later...
Off to pack.
Much love,
Your Empress
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