When I Was Crazy

Well, kids, I finally did it.

I lost my fucking mind.

Honestly I could have gone crazy at any point and it would have surprised no one, but I REALLY went crazy this time. As in, I slit both my wrists open and then stuck a loaded .45mm Glock in my mouth. My mom got there just in time, and I spent a week as a psych patient at the mental institution, total Girl, Interrupted style. But I'm still here, I'm out of the awful relationship I was in, and I'm still losing weight (my weight has actually been on the BACK OF MY MIND a few times lately, which is crazy for me to say, after nearly 30 years of it being front and center of my thoughts every second of every day...but now I'm 174, from 314, so I'm feeling kinda badass).

Anyway, I'm very lucky to be alive. I had already texted my mom asking her to send someone else (they were already arranging to send me to the crisis center) because I didn't want her to be the one to find the body. She got there just in time, for a very stupid reason: my wifi was being wonky and I was trying to Google the best place to shoot to make sure I was gone in one shot (literally).

I mean, the gun was in my mouth. The clip was full, the chamber loaded. My finger was on the trigger, tears pouring down my face, slobber all over the gun.

My Beretta. 22 (not the Glock my mom found me with).

But it's really surprising how much wiggle room there is with a big ass Glock in your mouth. Really. Was I supposed to shoot at a slightly upward angle, intending to sever my brain stem? Or slightly downward, for the spinal column? Certainly not straight back and chance missing both, right? Or would that be best? Anyway, I had questions...so I was trying to Google the best method, with the gun in my mouth and my shaking finger pressed right on the trigger, but the wifi wasn't reaching because I was in the back yard. My sister was a former biohazard remediation/crime scene cleanup technician and I didn't want anyone to have to deal with my body indoors, especially since I have so much stuff. There would be hair and skull fragments and blood and brain bits on everything, and I would have felt terrible. Or I guess I would have felt nothing? But the point is, I wanted to prevent a mess and therefore couldn't Google fast enough before my mom walked into my yard and I just couldn't do that to her. I couldn't let her watch me shoot myself. I took the gun out of my mouth long enough to cry out for her to please turn around and go back inside, but she came and took the gun and held me as I collapsed.

I'm doing much better now. The psych ward really did help. I wanna write later about how fucking crazy it was, but I'm glad I was there. I was still determined to kill myself, I just didn't want my mom to see. But the triage unit at the psych ward made sure there really were not many ways to kill yourself--no plastic bags, nothing. I spent my first night there sobbing but trying desperately to hold my mouth closed and pinch my nose shut and suffocate myself. It's true what they say, though--it's super hard to do that, because your body will let go at the last second and you'll gasp for air. I guess sometimes your body's primal desire to live sometimes overrides your mind's desire to end it all.

Glad I sucked at suicide, and now I can truthfully write about a mental hospital because I've been there, done that. But it does still scare me how quickly and completely I could become crazy. I have been off all of my medications since I lost my job and insurance in November, and that's after a decade and a half of constant anti-depressants and anti-anxiety pill combinations. Then my boyfriend and I had a couple pretty crazy fights a couple weeks ago. He had unexpectedly moved in along with his 18 year old son, which I had not wanted, but he was being sued by his landlord and then waited until the last second to find a place, so he ran out of time. They filled my garage with all of their stuff and then suddenly I was sitting, depressed, on the couch all day with two grumpy dudes instead of just one. They both just sat there getting high, watching television, and letting me cook them every meal. But he would get upset if I made ANY plans at all--I always included him, but he didn't want to leave the house. So then I couldn't leave the house. I was becoming more and more isolated from everyone, I was completely broke but hadn't even looked for a job because he liked me staying home with him, and because he said he'd pay some bills if he moved in, and then he started making me feel ugly and unloved too. I was wearing a cute new size Large black off-the-shoulder skater dress and feeling super super cute. When I got up, I flirtatiously flashed him my lacy underwear. His response: "Red and bumpy, just how I like it."

Wow.

I'm fucking sensitive, and burst into tears. That pissed him off, and so he started to go into why it wasn't a big deal because I have plenty of other flaws anyways, like still being fat and flabby.

Double wow.

He never got to see me at my heaviest, 317, but we did meet when I was still around 220. I lost almost 40 pounds in the time we were together, and he still had the nerve to call me fat and flabby.

He really hated me being happy, but got annoyed when I was depressed. He kept offering to help with money but he never did, even though he's been staying here basically full time since October. He knew I was struggling with money but then he picked up a cocaine habit! So then every single day he "needed" to do a bunch of coke so he could "work". He worked from home (my home) in data, but only did about an hour's worth of work a day. Then he spent the rest of the day stressed about work, but just watching tv and getting high. So yeah, I wasn't getting any money, and his coke use didn't taper off when his kid moved in. So I finally broke down and asked him to please at least get the kid out of my house, because I already wasn't feeling very loved or supported. He was furious and we fought hard and he basically dumped me. That's the first time in this ordeal that I started trying to cut my wrists, because he'd pulled me into this weird half-life existence where he was my entire world, and so if he left my entire world was gone too. Hearing over and over from him that I'll never do better than him eventually made me believe it.

Anyway, then we had a couple more crazy fights, make-ups, fights, make-ups...he went through my iPad and freaked out about an old message to an ex he thought was too flirty. Then he went through my phone while I slept and found a text from six months ago to another friend who happens to be an ex, he thought it was flirty also. So I then woke up to broken glass where he'd shattered the photos I'd had printed of us and framed, and most of his good stuff moved out, along with my weed. At this point, my friend brought me a shit ton of Kolonopin, so I was taking like 5 full mgs at a time and don't have much memory of the next few days. I know he threw all my patio furniture into my pool and broke my photos, I took a hammer to his shitty giant CRT televisions (who even uses those anymore?), and then like a freaking crazy sitcom, the cops showed up, I was trying to just get my weed back from him, which he TOLD the cop (ugh idiot...), then he tried to drive away and ended up hitting me with his car and running me over, I broke his window, he broke my toe and rolled my ankle...and then he was gone, and I was left with glass everywhere, a bloody foot, and more Kolonopin. Nothing happened with the cop, which I guess was good, but then the next two days were spent in stupid Facebook wars between my friends and his gigantic ex-wife of 20 years, and with me cutting my wrists deeper and deeper but I just couldn't push hard enough. He told me because I had an ingrown hair I has pulled: "Your pussy looks like a 14 year old girl with acne." Also, "There's a reason you don't feel attractive and it has nothing to do with your appearance. It's because of the empty hole in your heart where you should have a soul." Ouch. And every other evil thing you can say to a very sad, lonely, broken girl with really low self esteem who's been systematically brought under your psychological spell and will believe anything you say...No one loves me, I don't matter, I'm a fat and flabby and worthless slob, I'm lazy and disgusting and he can see why that one ex once told me he was disgusted by me (so glad I told him that really hurtful story)...

So then, well, it finally ended when my mom took the gun away and had me locked up for a little while. So yeah. That's the story of how I went fucking crazy for a little while.

I am staying strong. I would love to have him here to hold me so it's not easy to say no. But I am. I'm still a little shaky and getting used to my new meds, but things are looking up. Already in the 48 hours I've been out, I've done more work on my resume than I did in the previous six months, so I can start working soon and get out of this house and get out of my head a little.

I always said I wanted to write a book, but that I couldn't write about being fat until I was close enough to normal size that I could talk about being fat without being embarrassed. But I also always felt that my story needed a brief crazy spell. And I got it. Guess I can write my book now too :P

Pureed Food Heaven

**This post was originally from 7/18/2016 or so...I just totally forgot to publish it, and then my life turned into a freakin tire fire and I didn't publish anything else again until...well, now.**

I have never been so happy to eat mush in my entire life.

I'm finally on Week 2 of my gastric sleeve post-op diet, and so progressed to pureed foods yesterday. Thank goodness, because I was (not so) slowly losing my mind on full liquids only.

My mom took me to the store yesterday (I'm still not supposed to drive until I see the doctor for my first follow-up visit on Thursday--they want to make sure my stomach muscles are healed enough to hit the brakes in an emergency, and I should hopefully be off the painkillers by then). I stocked up on all kinds of awesome food to make the meals I'd planned this week. I was panicking a little bit, though, because I have pretty much made up my mind to go from vegetarian to vegan after my pureed food stage, and I realized how much of my cart was animal-based. I bought eggs, fat free sour cream, low fat ricotta, jello, shredded 2% cheddar, yogurt, greek yogurt pops, whey protein drinks, and 1% milk. That's a lot of dairy. To go from that to nothing is, well, a little intimidating.

The other thing holding me back from becoming a vegan is admittedly kinda dumb but I don't know how to get over it. I'm afraid it'll make me even more undateable. That is, less likely to find someone willing to put up with me. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I've already had issues with people (guys more than girls) commenting during the first date that it would be difficult to be with a vegetarian. My ex-boyfriend actually lists it as one of the main reasons we didn't work out. In fact, I asked him about it while we hung out this evening (to watch the first few episodes of Stranger Things, which is SO GOOD! It's shot really well, the music is AWESOME, the lighting and style is super cool, and of course the plots/characters drew me in too). He said that most of his favorite camping meals, dinners to cook at home, and restaurants he loves are all centered on meat. Like, I don't care about that. I even took him to Fogo De Chao which is basically a meat ballet and I didn't bat an eye. But I guess it was just one more thing stacked against me. So what if I become vegan and then REALLY can't find anyone who wants to be with me? I know you're not actually supposed to say this, and you're supposed to have the 'right reasons' to lose weight and shit, but let's be honest: most of the reason I wanted to have gastric surgery and lose weight is so that I'll be hotter and land a good mate. I want to make myself MORE dateable.

Taken a Turn

Yooooooo. It's been awhile.

LOTS has changed.

I feel a little silly writing, actually. But I don't have many (any?) outlets and I'm going through some stuff and could really use a place to lay out my thoughts, recipes, schedule, etc. so here I am.

Quick recap: Super single. Dated several people (guys and girls) after leaving my girlfriend of 8 1/2 years, but we're still best friends and hang out all the time. I ended up buying the house from her, so I live here alone. Well, alone except my chihuahua, my foster minpin, my Maine Coon, and two bearded dragons. So no quite alone. My relationship with my parents hasn't improved, and has actually gotten worse, particularly since my sister had her second kid (this one with the neighbor she cheated on her husband with). I do still get pilonidal cysts but the ichthammol ointment has kept it from ever getting really bad. I went off of Weight Watchers and pretty quickly gained back nearly every ounce I'd lost. Like, shockingly fast. I had one bad weekend in June of 2014 where I got drunk and didn't track, although I was at like 205 pounds and so close to losing 100 full pounds and being under 200 pounds for the first time in my adult life, and the wheels went off until by March of 2015 I was back up to around 280 pounds, and I've hovered there ever since.

Last October, I went to my favorite amusement park for their Halloween event, and was super excited to ride on my favorite roller coasters. Of course, since I gained back so much of the weight I had lost, I was back to always comparing my size to everyone around me, and amusement parks have always held their own particular horror. I felt pretty safe, however, because not only was I with my ex-boyfriend (the employee one) who is a very sizable guy, but I was also with his current girlfriend, a well-known Instagram model famous for her seriously enormous ass.

I was wrong.

I sat behind them in the first roller coaster we came to, and watched with growing horror as the tiny high-school-aged attendant feebly pushed against the bar and told her the bar was not going to click twice. I watched as she struggled to lift herself from the small ride, and I felt the flush creeping up my neck as I began to frantically push my own lap bar into the fat of my stomach to hear the necessary double click. Didn't work. I had to get out too. And THEN...the guy we were with (her boyfriend, who was my ex) proceeded to ride the coaster himself, as we stood on the other side of the tracks, exposed to the awaiting riders, blinking back tears, waiting for his dumb ass to be done. Of course people were staring. I mean, they're waiting in line, nothing to look at until the loaded cars come back to empty and load again, except what's going on in front of them. And in front of them were two fat assed chicks, crying and waiting for their lame escort. Plus, this girl seriously has the fattest ass of any other person I've met in my life. She's gorgeous--lovely face, great hair, tiny waist, thin arms, decent rack--but her ass is like two seals in a circus. Like, bigger than two hams, for sure. Maybe like two duffel bags full of pudding. Anyway oh my god it's super late and I'm rambling. Anyway, it finally happened, I was too fat to ride a ride.

I pretty much immediately called the local bariatric specialists and looked into weight loss surgery for the first time in my life. My close friend had gone through gastric sleeve surgery and went from 330 pounds, wearing clothes that were too big for me, to 175 pounds and a size 6/8. Even though I had totally hated on her while she was first contemplating surgery, she really talked me into it and has been super supportive. The entire time I was on Weight Watchers, I was HUNGRY. The entire time. I just remained hungry. The idea of having surgery that would remove or reduce my hunger sensors was incredibly appealing. So while I've always dismissed weight loss surgery as 'cheating', I started to really consider it.

I ended up going to a seminar, submitting it through insurance, and meeting with a doctor. She basically told me everything that I guess I knew but loved hearing from someone else: that I DO know how to lose weight, I just don't have the tools to keep it off. And that losing weight would really change my life. The surgeon was extremely optimistic and made me forget all of my protestations. So from there, I had six months of supervised weight loss visits, during which time I needed to lose 10 pounds, and I met with the psychiatrist, nutritionist, and everyone else she suggested. After I had gone through the six months of visits, been cleared by the shrink, and met again with the surgeon, they scheduled surgery and I began the waiting game. My surgery was last Monday. So I am officially six days post-op from gastric sleeve surgery!

When I began going to the monthly visits, I had gotten up to 290 pounds (actually 294 I believe). After the six months, I was around 282. When they checked me in to the hospital on Monday, the scale said 270, which was not terribly surprising since I'd been on a clear liquid diet and was so hungry I honestly would have had trouble not eating even meat if it was put in front of my face. When I got home from the hospital on Tuesday, my home scale said 277. I haven't used that scale for a loooong time, so I don't know how accurate it is. But since Tuesday, I've now gotten down to 274 pounds. Three pounds is not a lot, but at least it's not gaining.

Anyway, I'd like to talk about my recovery, complain about my healing process, vicariously plan out meals I'll be able to eat once I can eat again, share victories, and basically get shit off of my chest since I don't really have anyone I can rely on now. Oh, and I wanna talk about how hungry I am.

Because, unbelievably, but maybe predictably honestly if you know my life, it didn't work. The surgery didn't stop my hunger. It works except in the rarest of cases. Well, hello! I'm a rare case. Now, granted, I am still on the liquid diet (which I am being really really good about) and I know I'm still healing and some of it is gas and some is head hunger. I know these things.

But I am still hungry.

Some things never change.

My Grandfather Hates Fat People

We buried my grandfather today. He was 87.

I love that man so much.

To me, he is the quintessential 1950s black-and-white tv blue collar family man. He could be a character in so many mid-20th century shows. The gruff but caring, hard-working, decent and kind and disciplined and stubborn and loving man with strong moral fiber and a dogged work ethic. Clean shaven with a crisp white t-shirt and shined shoes, a pocket knife always handy, two fingers missing from the knuckle after a run-in with an automatic saw several decades ago.

Papaw had a great love of Westerns, Johnny Cash, and traveling, and possessed a wealth of colorful stories involving guarding German prisoners of war following WWII. He married the love of his life, worked hard, and provided an idyllic childhood to my father and aunt and uncle.

At the funeral today they gave him a really touching military burial, complete with the guns and Taps and the flag folding and everything else that made me weep. I was also so proud, and incredibly impressed by the number of loved ones who came from all across the country to mourn his death and celebrate his life. The minister mentioned the size of the crowd and noted that even the staff at the hospital had fallen in love with him.

As surly and gruff as he could be, people genuinely and deeply cared about him. I know I loved him so, so much. Even old neighbors who lived on his street half a century ago came to express their love for him.

So many people liked him. He liked all of them back.

But Papaw did NOT like fat people.

He hated fat people and didn't mind saying so. Sure, some of us were privileged to have him like us enough to somewhat overlook our size, but for the most part he held fat people in serious contempt. He had a look that he'd give fat people, a look of disgust and accusation. He didn't like to sit next to fat people. When he ended up in the hospital last month, he would point out the fattest nurses and say, loudly enough for them all to hear, "There's lots of big nurses. I don't know why they're so big. Nurses shouldn't be so fat. Some are alright but they shouldn't take care of other people if they can't take care of themselves…"

The unfortunate problem is the the vast majority of my family is overweight. Like, basically everyone. So I don't know about them, but I'm always acutely conscious of my size around my grandfather. His disgust with fat people rivals my dad's, and that's pretty potent stuff.

Still, I feel grateful that he did get to see me making progress. He was impressed with how much weight I've lost, and winning his approval felt almost as triumphant as winning my father's. 

I'm not religious and I don't know what I believe, but I do know that it's comforting to think that he's up in heaven right now, reunited with my grandmother and my uncle and great aunts and everyone else.

And if heaven does exist, and Papaw is up there watching, I truly hope I continue to make him proud by becoming a less fat person.

Fat and Depressed

I've thought about killing myself more times than I can count.

I never thought I'd make it this long. I sometimes stop, stunned, realizing that I'm actually 32 years old and still alive.

When I was in middle school, I was sure I'd kill myself before I turned 16. In high school, I was sure I wouldn't live to be 18. In college, I didn't expect to make it to 20. Then it was 25. Then 27, the age that we lose so many of our artists. Then 30. Now I'm 32, and thoughts of suicide come less frequently than ever.

Sure, I still have bad days when I convince myself that there's no way things will get easier, and I make it through by telling myself, "If tomorrow sucks as bad as today, just kill yourself." Or, "If you gain weight again next week, just kill yourself." But I don't do it. Either tomorrow is better, or I think of how much pain it would cause and I talk myself into waiting.

Depression is a serious problem for overweight individuals. Having been a fat kid, I know how worthless and out of control you can feel. Depression and suicide are also major issues in the gay community. Having spent high school in the closet, I know how hopeless the future can seem when you think your parents and society will reject you just for being yourself. 

The first time I thought about suicide, though, had nothing to do with my weight or my sexuality. I was seven years old and my mother had just been diagnosed with lupus. I was told she would die before I graduated, and I made up my mind to kill myself as soon as she died. Then I decided to kill myself before she died, to save myself the heartache. Then I just began thinking about it all the time, and suicide became the easy solution for any problem in my life.

My mom is still alive and, somehow, so am I. I still suffer from depression and this winter is making me feel even sadder than usual. It's been never-ending cold and gray and gross, and spending so much time indoors is driving me crazy. But for the first time in many years, I have things to look forward to. Since my heart surgery, I feel so much more active--I'm looking forward to spring walks and summer hikes, to canoeing and camping, to being outside, a part of the world. It's exciting, and even when I have my worst days, when I've gained weight or had to spend my tax return money on another fucking root canal, I have found myself thinking, "Spring is right around the corner" instead of "You can kill yourself tomorrow." It's a nice feeling.

The depression that's plagued me my entire life still makes itself known several times a day, and I'm prone to bouts of crying in the car. I have a lot to be sad about. I feel alone after the death of my best friend, I feel isolated because my girlfriend and I don't hang out with other people as much as we used to after all of our friends started breeding, I still really miss my dog who died a few years ago and get hit with waves of grief whenever I see rottweiler pictures or sad animal stuff which is more often than you would think, my weight loss is getting harder and harder, I still have major intimacy issues that have been the only dark cloud in my relationship over the past eight years, I feel overwhelmed by my job at times in a way that my Xanax can't help, I'm constantly worried in the back of my mind about my heart valve closing up again and almost killing me, I'm sad for my family and friends who have died in greater numbers than most people I know, I'm sad for my family and friends who are sick and getting sicker, I am extremely sensitive and find myself crying during songs on the radio or sad movies or stupid commercials...but the point is that it's getting better. 

When I get sad I cry and feel sorry for myself for awhile, but I've learned to pull myself through to the other side a little better. My sadness doesn't last as long, and I feel just a glimmer of hope knowing that I've made it through worse than this.

One particularly poignant song is Dar Williams' "After All," which I think is a painfully accurate portrayal both of thoughts of suicide and of the moment when you begin to feel hope. This website explains the lyrics really well. Here's the song:

Dar Williams, After All

 Go ahead, push your luck
Find out how much love the world can hold
Once upon a time I had control
And reined my soul in tight

Well the whole truth
It’s like the story of a wave unfurled
But I held the evil of the world
So I stopped the tide
Froze it up from inside

And it felt like a winter machine
That you go through and then
You catch your breath and winter starts again
And everyone else is spring bound

And when I chose to live
There was no joy
It’s just a line I crossed
I wasn’t worth the pain my death would cost
So I was not lost or found

And if I was to sleep
I knew my family had more truth to tell
So I traveled down a whispering well
To know myself through them

Growing up, my mom had a room full of books
And hid away in there
Her father raging down a spiral stair
‘Til he found someone
Most days his son

And sometimes I think
My father, too, was a refugee
I know they tried to keep their pain from me
They could not see what it was for

But now I’m sleeping fine
Sometimes the truth is like a second chance
I am the daughter of a great romance
And they are the children of the war

Well the sun rose
With so many colors, it nearly broke my heart
It worked me over like a work of art
And I was part of all that

So go ahead, push your luck
Say what it is you gotta say to me
We will push on into that mystery
And it’ll push right back
And there are worse things than that

Cause for every price
And every penance that I could think of
It’s better to have fallen in love
Than never to have fallen at all

‘Cause when you live in a world
Well it gets into who you thought you’d be
And now I laugh at how the world changed me
I think life chose me after all

Even though I'm still stopped in my tracks by depression every now and then, I feel like things are looking up. I'm healthy and happy, I love my family and my dogs, I have a great job and a pretty awesome life. Dar Williams still makes me cry, but now for the first time I understand how she feels when she sings, "I think life chose me after all."

...

Ruh Ro, Stomach Flu!

I am home sick today with stomach flu...which was a polite way to tell my employees that I'm violently defiling the bathroom right now.

Unfortunately for me, I'm only experiencing the intestinal distress. My appetite is entirely unaffected. Once the horrible stomach cramps started last night, I felt vaguely nauseated and was a little optimistic that I'd start throwing up along with everything else. But NOPE. I'm actually starving. I'm basically shackled to the toilet at this point, but I am not benefiting one ounce from the helpful vomiting that generally accompanies any stomach bug. I know I should definitely not WANT to throw up. I hate throwing up. Who actually likes vomiting? The problem is that we have a pack of Swiss Cake rolls in the pantry, and I would LOVE to eat them knowing that I would get sick and throw them up so I wouldn't have to count the Points.

Pretty twisted, huh?

I never had the courage for bulimia, nor the discipline for anorexia. I never had any real desire to become anorexic--I love food far too much--but I always thought I could solve all of my problems if I could really binge and purge. My old roommate attended bulimia support group therapy in hopes of picking up some tips and becoming bulimic herself (which, she reasoned, would be easier than, you know, eating right and and working out). It didn't work out for her. Like, at all. She and I both had the binge part down pat, but we just couldn't make ourselves purge.

She was messed up too.

So when I do get sick, as much as I hate it and it makes me cry because I'm a big baby when I'm sick (despite surviving multiple heart surgeries--dumb, right?), I also secretly enjoy being able to eat whatever I want. And sometimes eating delicious stuff and then throwing it up has a dual benefit: everything is out before I digest it, AND it looks so gross that I don't crave those treats for awhile.

Like I said, though, I only have the awful and painful diarrhea. No vomiting. Which means that I'm trapped here, hungry, in the house with Swiss Cake rolls, Smart Ones, hummus and pitas, colby cheese slices, fresh baked bread, crunchy peanut butter, jalapeno pepper jelly with crackers, and a bunch of other shit I'm trying to block out right now.

And I have ZERO weekly Weight Watchers points left for the week, thanks to an ill-advised margarita lunch at work on Friday and a really good queso and enchilada dinner on Saturday. 

I'm trying to keep my mind off of food by immersing myself in A Storm of Swords and cranking up the Fleetwood Mac on my record player, but I'm still making a mental inventory of everything in my kitchen. I can't help it. It's my fat girl mentality striking again.

Being at home alone has always been my time to binge, just like when I would get off the bus and have the house to myself for just long enough to gorge myself on secret Girl Scout cookie stashes or leftover candy hidden behind my bed. When I was in third grade, I would come home and if I was alone, I would immediately grab two cookies (sometimes chocolate chip or Magic Middle, sometimes oatmeal cream pies pulled apart) and cover one with a mound of Reddi-wip, and then make a cookie and whipped cream sandwich, which I would eat in two bites. Now when I'm home alone, I stick my finger in the peanut butter jar and then dip the peanut butter in the fat free whipped cream tub, because I reason that if I eat less than a half tablespoon of peanut butter I don't have to count the points.

So far today, besides the food I actually counted, I've had 5 maraschino cherries, three spoonfuls of fat free whipped cream, 3 Cheetos, half a Ritz cracker, 4 chili cheese Fritos, a lick of honey, 2 Baked Lays dipped in hummus, a pinch of shredded cheddar, 5 semi-sweet chocolate chips, and half a marshmallow. I feel like the queen of eating JUST enough that I don't feel like I should count it. Of course, if you add up all of that shit, it's like at least probably 6 or 7 Points.

But I'm sick so I have every right to stay in denial, right?

Maybe I'll get lucky and end up getting sicker and throw it all up anyway. Then I'd be home another day, though, and faced with the same temptations all over again.

Hopefully I'll just feel better, get back to work, and spend the next two days at my desk, which is stocked with NOTHING delicious. I say two days because...in three days, I go to Key West. For another all-inclusive work trip. Just like the Cancun trip last year. And I know I'm going to gain about 20 pounds in beach cocktails and buffet deserts.

After spending all this time in the bathroom while it's a wind chill of -10 out, though, I am SO ready to go, even if I do end up eating enough for five people!

Pilonidal Cysts and My Little Ponies

As someone who has endured the pain of pilonidal cysts, I can tell you that I live in constant fear of having another flare-up.

You can read about my last cyst here, and the eventual resolution here.

This weekend was another cold, slushy, gray blur (the only bright point being my discovery of angel food cake made with a can of crushed pineapple, and the subsequent shame in realizing that I ate four full servings at once). I felt compelled to get out and DO something since, well, it's winter and gross outside but it actually wasn't freezing so I felt pressured to get out of the house and enjoy the relative heat wave of 40 degree weather.

Instead, however, I watched the documentary "Bronies" and then ended up watching the entire third season of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. Yes, I'm a dork. I have loved My Little Ponies since I was little, my 80's room (our guest bedroom) is filled with at least 80 original ponies, and this new cartoon has sucked me in despite the slightly slutty re-imagining of their figures. I had watched the first two seasons on Netflix and, after the documentary, discovered that they added the third season. So instead of getting outside and doing something active, I sat on my couch for approximately 48 straight hours.

If you are prone to pilonidal cysts, it is NOT advisable to sit on a couch for 48 hours.

Most of the times that I've had a flare-up have been after a long road trip, after riding roller coasters that hit my tailbone, after sitting for long periods of time in uncomfortable chairs, etc. When I feel like I'm sitting on my tailbone, I immediately try to shift around to take the pressure off. I start feeling like the pilonidal cyst is gathering power and is getting ready to make an appearance.

After this weekend, then, I am being really careful not to lean back in my chair. I am terrified that it's going to flare up again.

I had really hoped that losing weight would make my pilonidal cysts fewer and farther between. I always think of it as a 'fat person disease' and, right or wrong, I hope that once I get down to a healthy weight, I won't have to worry about getting another one.

Of course, a basic understanding of anatomy and biology tells me I'm wrong. I must have a pilonidal sinus and a cavity from past infections, so future infections are always possible.

Still, I can't help but feeling dirty and fat when I think about it. Maybe the pilonidal cyst is like my badge of dishonor--a relic I'll be forced to deal with for all of eternity, for the crime of spending most of my life as a fat person.

I just really, really hope it doesn't flare up this week. Next weekend I am going to try to get my ass off of the couch so I don't have to think about it!

Abs of Jelly

It's so awesome to be able to dress my age again. I mean, I'm only 31. I felt like a gross old lady every time I went to work wearing yoga pants (knowing very well that I was NOT going to practice any yoga) and Crocs and cardigans. I spent almost two years in tent dresses and flip flops all summer, then "dress" sweats and baggy sweaters all winter.

This is my first real Fall since so long ago. I can wear real jeans again, and cute, form-fitting sweaters, with fitted jackets and knee-high riding boots. It's amazing.

But as much as I'm loving the ability to wear jeans, I am still facing the problem I've had for years: my Gonzo-nose stomach. Even though I'm smaller now, I'm still virtually the same shape. I have the same lumps and flab, and my stomach is still big and soft. It hangs down (the ultra-embarrassing, often unspoken of, dreaded pannus ::shudder::). It bulges out. And, hardest to conceal, it pooches out right above my bellybutton. If I wear jeans that come to my bellybutton or below, it doesn't matter if they fit me or even if they're too big: my stomach roll sticks out over my pants.

My only solution is to wear pants that come above my bellybutton. Like, mom jeans that come up high and act as a girdle, or maternity-type pants that unfold to form a flat surface up my torso. I do have some Spanx but, let's face it, I'm not putting that much effort into beautifying myself for work. And I have those slimming camisoles that keep everything smooth, but they roll up sometimes and they're just not very comfortable pushing down on my healing heart surgery scars.

While I continue to fight my own battle of the bulge using my wardrobe as a weapon, I'm also fighting on another front: from the inside. I saw some people posting challenges on Facebook and decided to try one. Then...I decided to try another. Now I'm doing two different month long ab challenges, and...I'm secretly loving it!

The first one is the 30 Day Plank Challenge:

The 30 Day Plank Challenge will send your core strength through the roof!
Day 1 - 20 seconds
Day 2 - 20 seconds
Day 3 - 30 seconds
Day 4 - 30 seconds
Day 5 - 40 seconds
Day 6 - REST
Day 7 - 45 seconds
Day 8 - 45 seconds
Day 9 - 60 seconds
Day 10 - 60 seconds
Day 11 - 60 seconds
Day 12 - 90 seconds
Day 13 - REST
Day 14 - 90 seconds
Day 15 - 90 seconds
Day 16 - 120 seconds
Day 17 - 120 seconds
Day 18 - 150 seconds
Day 19 - REST
Day 20 - 150 seconds
Day 21 - 150 seconds
Day 22 - 180 seconds
Day 23 - 180 seconds
Day 24 - 210 seconds
Day 25 - 210 seconds
Day 26 - REST
Day 27 - 240 seconds
Day 28 - 240 seconds
Day 29 - 270 seconds
Day 30 - PLANK FOR AS LONG AS POSSIBLE!!

It was incredibly difficult at first, since I haven't really ever planked before. I mean, I was shaking and gasping and I didn't think I was going to make it. (To be clear, this is not that cheesy Instagram/Twitter planking thing, where I go balance myself, like, on the railing at Niagara Falls while my girlfriend takes a photo and hopes I don't fall off and die.) Now, on day 7, it's still hard. And every few days it's going to get harder. But my abs feel great, and I feel like I'm actually accomplishing something each day!

The second one is the 24 Day Abs-So-Tightly Right Challenge. This one involves crunches, which aren't so bad, along with leg raises, which was apparently completely impossible for me to do. I tried. I swear I did. But I just can't lift both legs at once. They're pretty big legs, but I still feel like I should be able to lift them. When I try, though, my back starts to arch and then my tailbone grinds into the ground (which is probably not good for my temporarily dormant pilonidal cyst) and I just can't get them to raise off the ground no matter how hard I strain. Instead, I'm making up for it by doing single leg raises, one leg at a time, and I've added side leg lifts because that's what my mom always did when I was little and it just seems like something that should be included in a workout. This challenge also asks you to plank, but I figure I have that covered in the first challenge.

I already feel like I can feel a bit of definition when I put my hands on my hips. And when I roll over on my side, I feel like a little less belly settles down in front of me. I gained weight during my last two weigh-ins, but I do feel stronger and my abs are seriously sore. Something must be working. Maybe by the end of the month, I'll be able to wear pants that don't come up to my armpits.

Milk of Magnesia

So the past couple of weeks, I've gotten into what seems like a bad habit. On Tuesday nights before my Weight Watchers weigh-in, I've taken a dose of Milk of Magnesia. I don't know...it sort of feels like cheating.

I had never tried Milk of Magnesia before this year, but I had a, erhm, stomach problem earlier this year and it actually ended up helping. Then I stocked up on it in case I had the same problem again, and when I felt bloated a couple weeks ago before weigh-in I decided to take some. I hate feeling bloated before weigh-in. And the thought of having a falsely high weigh-in is devastating to me. I'm one of those people stripping down in the Weight Watchers line, even taking off my tiny bracelet and dainty necklace, my work lanyard, extra rubber bands, everything. We joke about the "pre-weigh-in-bathroom-rush" where for the hour preceding the weekly weigh-in, there's a constant cycle of people from my department at work trying to eliminate those last few ounces. We all go to the bathroom at least once, and no one drinks water or eats any snacks all morning. But this Milk of Magnesia is taking it to a whole other level. Now I feel like if I don't get 'cleaned out' before weigh-in I'm going to weigh like 3 pounds more and then I'll be really sad.

I don't know. It's gross. It's weird. It's not even really helping much. But it's making me feel better. That's gotta count for something, right?

Anal Volcano

We have eruption!

My pilonidal cyst finally burst. Thank goodness. I was just on the verge of going to the emergency room--the pain was moving beyond what I could handle. My thoughts were cloudy, my breathing was shallow, I couldn't stop trembling, and the pain was just overwhelming.

When I mentioned that I have only sought medical treatment twice for my cysts, that was true...but I've come really, really close just about every time. It seems like just when the pressure and pain reaches its absolute worst and I feel like I can't possibly live another moment longer, just when I begin to doubt myself and think that maybe I do need to go to the hospital after all, just when I'm making a list in my head of what items I need to grab before asking someone to take me to the hospital, that's when the cyst finally bursts. Like once when I had waited a week in complete agony until I broke down and called my mother--she came over waited while I took a quick shower since I hadn't really moved all week...while I was in the shower, I heard a splat and felt relief and saw that the cyst had ruptured with such force that it covered the shower wall behind me. My mom heard me gasp and came to the door, but then started gagging at the smell. I sent her home. No hospital needed.

So I was at my breaking point again this time, leaning forward on the couch and looking around the room to decide what I needed to shove into my purse before I asked my girlfriend to drive me to the ER, when I suddenly felt relief, my head cleared, and I felt warm, sticky, wet grossness spreading across the back of my pants.

I gasped, jumped up from the couch, and fled the room. My girlfriend instantly knew what was happening and I could hear her cheering as I slammed the bathroom door behind me. I turned on the water and jumped in the shower fully dressed, knowing that the cyst fluids were already seeping through every layer of my outfit. The smell was overpowering, even before I undressed. It smelled like blood, pus, infection...super super gross. And once I started peeling off layers and more pus gushed out, the smell grew. As bad as it smelled, though, I knew that it was the putrid smell of relief.

As usual, I pushed and squeezed (gently) until I couldn't get any more out. After washing everything, I was left with an inflamed but essentially empty pus pocket and the raw, broken skin from which the fluid had burst. And as usual, I sprayed it with Bactine, taped on a bandage, and returned to my girlfriend where I promptly fell asleep to make up for the past several sleepless nights.

As I said, this is the same cycle that happens every time. It gets more and more painful until I don't think I can live through one more second, and then it explodes and grosses me out and it's fine. It will continue to seep a yellow liquid and some blood for a few days, and if I'm not careful it may swell up again, but now that the skin is broken it will burst more easily for the next month or so. Thank goodness. I was so close to going to the hospital, and that's the main thing I wanted to avoid. Oh, that and not getting the septic bacteria into my blood stream. That's important.

This is just one of those other awful 'fat girl things' that I suspect more people experience than admitted. This is also something I really hope just 'goes away' as I lose more weight. I've only known one small person with a pilonidal cyst. Maybe I'll just magically stop having them? I don't know. All I know is that I'm so thankful I'm not in pain right now, and I'm so grossed out by this oozing sore on my butt crack. At least I survived this one again, and it again gave me perspective: my heart surgery incision pain is basically nonexistent now, especially in comparison!

More Numbers

I wanted to make myself feel better so I took some measurements. I was hoping that I would see some changes to my body, even if the scale isn't showing any progress.

All I found out is that my boobs are shrinking.

Lovely.

New dimensions:

Neck: 15"
Bust: 46"
Chest: 42"
Waist: 41"
Hips: 50"
Thighs: right 28", left 29"
Calves: left and right 20"
Ankles: right 10.5", left 11"
Upper arms: right 14", left 15"
Forearms: right 10.5", left 11"
Wrists: right and left 7"

This shows some progress (I guess) from the last time I measured myself, but it's still a little disheartening.

I bought myself some pretty things on Amazon to keep my mind off of food and my weight and my failures. I may go to Macy's next. Retail therapy is totally underrated.

Gross Fat Girl Stuff

Time to talk about some gross stuff.

I've still been having serious bathroom issues...like, I haven't had a really good poop for a week. It's awful. I never thought I'd miss pooping so bad. My stomach is all cramped up. I even tried a fucking enema, for god's sake. It was the grossest thing that's ever happened to me. UGH. I'm still all blocked up. Which also means that I haven't lost any weight. I've stayed steady since last week (hovering right around 250-252) but I think if I could just go to the bathroom like a normal fucking person, I'd probably flush away five pounds or so. Yuuuuuuck.

Sadly, that's not the gross stuff I want to talk about.

I want to talk about...yeast. Specifically, yeast infections. More specifically...topical yeast infections.

I thought that losing weight would eliminate all of my infection problems, but obviously I'm still 250 pounds so my stomach fat still hangs down, so I STILL get nasty yeast infections. Not in my lady parts. Under my stomach. Raw, red, painful, burning, STINKING yeast infections.

I know when they're going to start because I can smell that smell. When I was in the hospital before my open heart surgery, I was really sick for a long time and I couldn't drag myself to the shower so I would just kind of wipe myself down (okay, aside from that one against-my-will sponge bath that scarred me for life). After a few weeks of not really bathing, I started smelling it. That gross, sickly sweet smell that's like no other smell on earth. The kind of smell that, once it enters your nose, doesn't leave for hours.

So I'm really self conscious about it. I'm a fanatical baby powder user. I pat every fold and roll with baby powder pretty much every day, and I never go outside and sweat without some baby powder dusted between my legs and under my boobs. But this morning I smelled that smell, and I knew I had an infection. I lifted my stomach and saw that angry red shiny skin. I wiped it with some tissue paper and it was wet with infection seeping out. I wiped again and the pain was so sharp and raw that I had to stop. I just coated myself with baby powder and then, when the powder immediately became wet over the wound, I rubbed triple antibiotic ointment into it and then patted on more baby powder.

While I'm sitting here I can feel it. It's gross and it hurts. It smells. It makes me feel dirty. It makes me feel nasty.

And more than anything, it makes me feel anxious for the day that I've lost enough weight that I don't have to lift my stomach to powder under my rolls.

Speaking of which, weigh-in tomorrow is not going to be fun tomorrow unless I manage to go to the bathroom. Fingers crossed.

The Elephant In The Bathroom

I can no longer say I'm under 250 pounds--my weight bounced back up for a few days and I was at 251.6 at Wednesday's weigh-in.

However...I think I'm back down to 248 or so today, and hopefully still coming down.

This is really embarrassing but I feel like I need to defend myself for getting back over 250 pounds.

I think I was full...of...poop. There, I said it.

My stomach hurt for a couple days, and I was feeling really, really bloated by Monday night. I realized that I hadn't been going to the restroom like my usual, "regular" self (if you know what I mean). So I tried to figure out what was going on, and I remembered that my girlfriend had brought home a box of Fiber One Chocolate Chip Brownies the week before, and I LOVED them. They're only 2 Points each! Amazing!

They're great for breakfast! And they're great with 1 Point worth of whipped cream on top!

And I loved them SO MUCH that I ate two the first night she brought them home.

Then I ate two more the next day.

Then I finished the box. She bought two more boxes...

And then I ate four Fiber One bars in one day.

I mean, that's only eight Points...but that's a LOT of Fiber One bars! Too much of anything is bad, fiber included. Since my regular diet is already pretty high in fiber, I'm afraid I caused some kind of blockage.

See? Embarrassing.

Tuesday night I decided to try an Epsom salt laxative. I mixed two teaspoons of Epsom salt into a cup of water with lemon juice and gulped it down. It was totally gross. Then I waited...and waited...and nothing happened. Seriously. I've never taken a laxative in my life so I didn't know what to expect, but after a few hours I started looking online for people saying Epsom salt didn't work for them. Turns out, if it doesn't work, your colon is probably completely stopped up and you require surgery. I was then 100% convinced that I was suffering from severe fecal impaction and I was going to die. I did NOT want to die from SHIT!

But I didn't want to deal with going to the hospital and missing work (especially after being sick and missing work last week) so I just hoped the Epsom salt would work its magic overnight.

Nope.

By the time I weighed in at Weight Watchers on Wednesday, I felt like a blimp had been inflated inside my abdomen. It was awful. So I was not surprised at all that I had gained weight. (Well, I'd also been watching my weight like a hawk on my stupid scale ever day...stupid fucking scale.)

Wednesday night, my girlfriend brought me home some Milk of Magnesia. I downed four tablespoons and waited. I made dinner and, while it was cooking, I stretched out and poked and prodded at my stomach. I was able to feel my hips and ribs and possibly some organs, which was nice after shedding my 50 pound layer of fat. When dinner was ready, I got about three quarters of the way through eating when I finally jumped up and ran to the bathroom.

I weighed myself afterwards and I was down to 249 pounds again. Whew! Tonight, I'm at 248. I think I could still use a little, erm, "cleaning out"...but at least I don't feel like such a big bloated lump anymore.

I haven't walked for a few days, and my hopes of making it through the 100 Mile March have pretty much vanished. I do want to see how far I can get, though. The treadmill is calling my name. Well, more like whispering, but I'll take it.

And I'll try to hold back on the Fiber One bars.

Daddy

I can blame my weight on a lot of things. I know most of the fault is my own. No one held a gun to my head and made me gorge myself on cheese and chocolate for 30 years.

Still, like a lot of heavy people, I believe that a great deal of my weight issues have been tied to my parents. Between the bad genes, setting bad examples, rewarding us with food, forcing me to clear my plate but rarely making me eat vegetables...it's no wonder I was chubby by the time I was in kindergarten. 

My mom is the one who cooked dinner every night loaded with carbs and butter. She's the one who gave us Poptarts for breakfast and Lunchables, Capri Suns, fruit snacks, Cheetos, and Little Debbies in our lunches. She's the one who is overweight and who everyone says I look just like. She's the one who eats stacks of chocolate chip cookies for breakfast every single morning (not kidding) and then wonders why she can't control her diabetes.

But my dad is responsible for more emotional baggage than my mother could ever dream of inflicting.

I called this blog "My Weird Luck" for a number of reasons. I do have weird luck--not necessarily bad all the time, just strange. My life has taken many unexpected turns over the years. I've come through raging fires where I should have burned in my bed, and heart issues that no one expected me to survive. I've lost those closest to me in tragic and mysterious ways. I've been faced with bizarre obstacles and managed to get through one way or another. I would attribute much of it to weird luck. Maybe the stars were aligned strangely the day I was born.

But mostly, the name of this blog is an homage to Sylvia Plath, one of many poets whom I adore and admire. The line comes from her well-known poem, Daddy.

(Go ahead and read it. I'll wait.) That poem sums up a lot of my feelings for my father. He's in my life and still with my mother, but sometimes (okay, most of the time) I think we'd be better off without him. I KNOW my mom would be. 

I think he does love me. I just think his cruelty far outweighs his capacity to love.

Take this as an example: My parents have been married for 31 years. One of my earlier memories is of my dad telling me (around 5 years old) and my sister (2 or 3 years old) that my mother was like a vacuum cleaner because she would eat anything in the house. What kind of man makes comments like that to his children about their mother? That's when I started to learn how highly my father prized physical beauty and despised weakness. Fat, to him, is one of the most disgusting forms of weakness. To elaborate on the scene I just mentioned: this was when my mother was around 26 years old and weighed maybe 140 pounds. He constantly commented on her weight, and she was a third of the size she is now. Now, he doesn't even touch her. He won't divorce her, but chooses instead to keep her with him under his constant judgement. He doesn't even bother to hide his disgust of her.

When my parents were dating, my dad apparently used to sing Meatloaf's "Two Out of Three Ain't Bad" to my mother. He told her every day that it was how he felt. "I want you, I need you, but there ain't no way I'm ever going to love you." I cry every time I hear that song on the radio, because it makes me think about just how shitty it would be to live with that kind of emotional abuse for 31 years. My poor mom. No wonder she loves chocolate so much.

My dad's judgement definitely doesn't end at my mom.

When I was younger, he was more direct in his scorn and derision. He would comment on my weight, on the food I was eating, on how I was dressed. He was cruel. He was violent. He scared the shit out of me. But mostly, he was just kind of a dick. Of course, I never stopped starving for his attention and approval, and I foolishly thought that if I tried hard enough, he'd eventually magically become a good guy. That obviously never happened. Like, true story: when I was 10 or so I was looking for a Father's Day present. He's a terrible person to shop for because he just buys himself anything he sees that he wants (and he still makes my mom beg for enough money to fill up the car with gas, or to pay for her doctor's bills--as sick as she is, he limits how many doctors she's allowed to see and he cancels appointments if they're going to be expensive). Anyway, I couldn't find anything for him so I bought him a t-shirt for Father's Day that said "World's Greatest Dad." I really though that I couldn't go wrong with a gift like that. HA! Not only did he make a point to tell me that it was a dumb present, but he actually returned it and used the money to buy himself a big can of cashews. Not even joking. Ugh, that's a bad memory. So his cruel comments don't stop at my mom, and they don't stop at even my weight. He can make me feel like shit about pretty much anything in the world.

Now that I've learned to assert myself, he makes more passive aggressive remarks about strangers. "Look at that fat pig over there!" or "God, I can't believe that woman is going to eat that whole meal--I'm getting sick just looking at her!" (Oh, yeah, he's fucking racist too. That's a lovely combination, right?) I've stopped even trying to keep my mouth shut--when he's being nasty and rude, I tell him so. But that doesn't stop him, and it never will.

As disgusting as his thoughts and actions are, it's his attitude about weight that's had the most impact on me personally. Everything else I can deal with in my own way--I'm proud to support equal rights for everyone, I loved how depressed he got when Obama won TWICE (!!!!), and I crushed him by pursuing a Women's Studies degree. I've marched on Washington, I came out as a lesbian at age 18, and I never back down now when he tries to pick a fight about anything.

Except my weight. Partially because I know he's right--I am a fat failure--and partially because it's embarrassing to have anyone call me out about it. At least everyone else is polite enough to quietly ignore my skyrocketing weight. But not him.

My dad has always faced his own struggles with weight. When he was in high school, he was fat. According to him, though, he basically 'willed' all the weight off. Determination, willpower, and a jump rope--he claims that's all you need to drop 100 pounds. Well, maybe for him.

When he was older, maybe in his 30s, he started gaining weight again. He had bushy facial hair and looked like a mountain man. Our neighbor called him "Big Daddy" because he looked like a large reproduction of her own dad.

Then, he got self conscious and started working out again, cut back his portions, and lost weight. Now he wears an XL shirt where before he was pushing XXXL--and he loves to remind everyone about it any chance he gets. He never misses an opportunity to talk about how little he eats, how much energy he has, how long his bike rides are.

That just pisses me off. I don't want to hear about how awesome he is or how I just need to have the determination to lose weight. I fucking hate self-righteous people, and even more so when they're such dicks about everything else.

My dad, though, really knows how to jab the knife in.

Listen, this is a person I would hate if I met him on the street. He's obsessed with Nazi propaganda, he's an unabashed racist, he's heartless and cold and cruel. But he's still my dad, and in the way that all little fat girls do, I still seek his approval more than I seek anything else in my life. It's shameful to me how proud I am when he recognizes me when I get promoted at work, and when he brags about my professional accomplishments. I feel incredible guilt every time I smile at his compliments.

He knows how much his approval means, and he knows how much he hurts me. I think in his sick way he thinks he's helping...but he's not. Not at all.

Um, Did I Swallow a Bowling Ball?

I HAVE GAINED 10 POUNDS IN ONE. FUCKING. WEEK.

TEN POUNDS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

That's, like, a whole turkey. That's a cat. That's bigger than a baby.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUU...

Okay, I know it's because I just started my period. But seriously...there's not 10 fucking pounds of menses in my uterus right now. At least I fucking hope not. GROSS. And my ankles aren't swollen (I've taken water pills since my open heart surgery, and I can always tell when they're not working because it feels like I'm wearing water wings on my ankles).

So HOW did I gain TEN POUNDS?!?!

(Sidenote--did you know that there's actually a punctuation mark called an 'interrobang' that represents a combined exclamation point and question mark? It's true. And awesome. Too bad my keyboard doesn't come with an interrobang because I would use it all the fucking time.)

Seriously, though, I can't believe I gained so much weight. I'm back solidly into the 260s again. I did not want to be back here.

The last time I gained this much weight at once, I quit Weight Watchers and didn't return for three years. In that time, I gained back everything I had lost, plus another 25 pounds. It was awful. I don't want to go back there, but I can't help but get discouraged when I gain TEN. FUCKING. POUNDS.

I think I'm going to skip my weigh-in tomorrow. It's my last weigh-in before Cancun, and I don't want to go on vacation with such a bad weigh-in hanging over my head. I want to enjoy myself (within reason) and I won't be able to if there's a formal record somewhere of how hard I failed this week.

And okay, if I am being honest, it's not just my period. I was pretty bad. I was doing okay until Saturday, when I went to a Boy Scout soapbox derby for my nephew. They had all kinds of cookies and brownies and everything for sale, 50 cents each. It was like a fundraiser, right? It would have been wrong not to buy something...right?

I ate a good, healthy, filling meal before I went and I brought a whole purse full of oranges, water, apples, pears (which do NOT hold up well in a purse, I soon found out). But when I saw the monster cookies...man, I couldn't help myself. Oatmeal and peanut butter chips and M&Ms all in one delicious cookie? How could I resist?

But I've been good about letting myself eat something delicious in a reasonable quantity, as long as I'm careful about tracking it. So I thought one cookie wouldn't hurt.

Well, then my dad showed up. This man has done more to influence my weight than probably any other single person on the planet, excluding myself. He immediately started talking about how I looked good but I probably shouldn't be eating cookies...how he lost weight with sheer willpower alone and it takes resolve if you want to keep your weight down...how my sister looked so great and was getting skinnier and skinnier and she wasn't eating any cookies, was she?

Fuck him.

I bought another 50 cent bag and ate every crumb. Then I took half of my girlfriend's chocolate chip cookie. And then, fuck it, there was part of a cookie pie left and I ate that too.

Le sigh.

So I can't really blame my period. It was all me. I'm embarrassed about how much I ate, but even more embarrassed about how I let my emotions overtake me. One moment of weakness has virtually erased all of the progress I've made this past month. I let myself down.

Maybe I should weigh in tomorrow. Own up to it and learn from my mistakes. Either way, I need to be careful around my dad and food. Another week like this one and I'm afraid I'll give up...and at this point, I can't afford to do that. My body can't take it.

Can't Look Away

So after posting my body measurements (cringe.) I searched the Internets for a way to input my measurements and get an accurate model of my body. I've always felt a little dysmorphic--at times, I can only think of how humongously huge I am and I feel like seven cows worth of lard stuffed into a bodysuit. Other times, I feel sleek and pretty and like I couldn't possibly weigh 304 pounds (well, 264 now I guess).

Behold the wonders of the Body Visualizer:

 

Honestly, I don't think I look like this.

 

I look worse. Much worse. 

The fat bulges more above my knees and elbows, my stomach hangs down in the front (the dreaded fupa), my boobs are bigger. But if you picture this with a fupa...well, that's pretty much me naked.

What an image.