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.

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."

...

32 Years Old, 215 Pounds

Today is my birthday. So naturally, with my luck, I wrote a whole post and it disappeared. Woohoo, happy birthday to me.

I don't mean to sound bitter. I just really hate birthdays. Turning 32 feels like turning 92...I feel so fucking old.

But I actually feel better than I have since...well, for as long as I can remember. That's pretty awesome.

The thing about turning 32 is that it's supposed to be a woman's sexual peak. This is supposed to be my prime time. I should be raring to go.

But I'm not. I'm terrified that I'll spend 32 like I did 31, and 30, and 29...too self conscious and petrified of having my girlfriend see me naked that I've avoided intimacy like Lindsay Lohan avoids jail time.

I want my 32nd year to be full of great sex, like just awesome sex every night. I have an insanely hot girlfriend, I feel better and look better than I have in my entire life, and I'm evidently in my sexual prime.

Unfortunately, I have a long way to go before I can feel comfortable enough to actually enjoy sex. I mean, I love pleasuring my girlfriend, but I hate her touching me or looking at me. I wasn't always this self conscious, even when I weighed more than I do now, but I was usually wasted and besides, that was before I had a boyfriend stop in the middle of going down on me, saying, "You disgust me," and walking out. That shattered my soul, and it's the reason that my girlfriend doesn't get nearly enough sweet sweet loving. (Yeah, that guy was a total dick. I'll tell you about him sometime...)

From the beginning of Weight Watchers, one of the main reasons I have wanted to lose weight is to feel better naked (which is a pretty universal goal) and I'm hoping that this year I can make some progress. If I can't feel sexy at 32, my scientific sexual peak, I may never feel sexy again...and then, what's the fucking point of anything?

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!

Fatty Fatty Two By Four

I'm having a fat day.

Make that a fat week.

You know how some girls have bad hair days? Well, my hair is frizzy and I hate it 90% of the time, so every day is basically a bad hair day. And until the past few months, I was always aware of my fat so EVERY day was a fat day too.

Things started changing, ever so slowly. I went from constantly thinking about my size to finally, after so many years of morbid obesity, allowing myself to concentrate on my life instead of my fat. I have fat days, but not single fucking day is a fat day. Not all of my thoughts revolve around being fat. I've been able to go to antique malls and actually shop, instead of spending my time in there carefully squeezing between shelves of glassware and praying that I don't knock over a $500 vase with my gut. I went to the mall and strolled into Victoria's Secret without flushing with the embarrassment of knowing every salesperson was wondering why someone my size was in their tiny store. Last week, I wore a pair of underwear that kept rolling down and I could feel my stomach hanging out when I sat down, but that annoying and uncomfortable day made me realize that I used to feel like that EVERY day. So things have been pretty awesome.

Now, unfortunately, I'm having a fat day and with good reason. I'm getting fatter. Plus, I'm in a rough spot. I'm so close to my next goal of being under 200 pounds, and I'm also right on top of Christmas and New Year's, two gluttonous holidays. Maybe not for everyone, but my sweet tooth really makes Christmas intolerable while trying to lose weight.

Can't...stop...eating...

Everyone around me knows I'm on Weight Watchers and that I've lost close to 100 pounds since last August, so people for the most part have been great about not tempting me with treats. My coworkers and family also know that I am utterly powerless around sweets, so they've even made an effort to have fruit and veggies around, and I offer to bring healthy sides to pitch-ins and family dinners. Still, there's really no avoiding sweets. One of my employees brought a bag of candy--mini Snickers, mini Twix, Hershey Kisses, Rolos, etc. I started off with one piece, then another, and before I knew it...the whole fucking bag was gone by noon today. Less than four hours and I inhaled 12 Points worth of candy.

Then I came home and my mom dropped by. She brought me some peanut butter balls (which most people call Buckeyes) and I ate two of them, followed by a fresh chocolate chip cookie. I meant to leave one for my girlfriend but...nope. I ate them all. Eight more Points down.

This week, I'm really ashamed to admit that I've gone over my weekly Points by THIRTY. Seriously. 3-0. I had Olive Garden one day, a pumpkin roll another day, more cookies and candy than I usually eat in a month. It's been delicious but terrible.

My consolation is that I am at least tracking, and tracking honestly. When I step on the scale next, I'll know exactly where each added pound came from. Then I can turn it around, hopefully.

I need to start working on my New Years Resolutions, but right now I'm just trying to make it to New Year's without fucking up all the progress I made in 2013.

So yeah, I'm having a fat day. A fat week. I've gained three pounds since my Wednesday weigh-in, and I'm still plowing through food like a ravenous goat. But at least it's a fat day now, and not a fat life. I've made some progress, even if it doesn't feel like much.

Dying Without Dignity

My grandma might be dying.

She's in the ICU with carbon monoxide poisoning. She's been virtually unresponsive for several days. The doctors are talking tracheotomy or breathing tube, life support, and saying she will never be well again. I'm not sure if she's going to make it.

One of the things that makes me sick is that, if she does end up not making it, one of her last memories will be of EIGHT nurses crowded around her, rolling their eyes, struggling to lift her to make her more comfortable, enduring their disgust and exasperation, while she cries out for them to stop because she's scared and in pain and having EIGHT nurses hovering over her is stressful and humiliating.

I've written about my grandmother and her weight struggles before. My grandma weighed around 460 pounds the last time she was in the hospital. This time, they said she's gained at least 50 pounds of water weight in the past few months, so I'm positive she is over 500 pounds now.

Which is huge. Truly. But, when you think about it, 300 pounds is really pretty far along on the way to 500. I can't judge her for weighing 500 pounds, when I was over 300 and growing steadily. I can see how easy it would be to give in and add a few pounds, year by year, until you finally realize you're 500 pounds. So, like I said, I'm definitely not judging her.

But I CAN judge the hospital staff for making her feel so fucking miserable about it. She's barely conscious right now but when she does wake up, it's because these disgusted nurses are shoving her around like she's a cow carcass. When she woke up long enough to complain about her discomfort in the position she was in, they brought in a CRANE. It was this lift machine that they use for bariatric patients where they strap you in to this harness and hook you into this crane to wench you up above the bed and settle you back in. Picture the thing they used in Free Willy to get the whale to the beach. That's what they tried to use on my grandma.

I've had my own really uncomfortable and shame-inducing experiences with hospital staff. So has my mom. The indignity of those tiny gowns, the grunts and groans of staff members heaving you from one bed to another, the shame knowing that you won't fit into the machines they need to shove you into, the humiliation of hearing "We can't get a good reading because there's too much fat in the way."

It was terrible for me. I still have nightmares about it. It makes me physically ill that my mom went through it. But now that my grandmother might take her last breath at any minute, it's a real, visceral pain I feel thinking of the shame and humiliation Meme has felt before she'll soon slip away.

My grandfather is devastated. He has spent the last decades of his life caring for my grandmother. Leading her to the bathroom and wiping her when she's done, showering her and brushing her hair because her arms are so heavy she can't keep them up long, lifting her stomach to pat her down with baby powder to avoid getting those fat-girl yeast infections. He's devoted 24 hours a day to her care, and now he's blaming himself for not being able to protect her from this. From dying. From indignity.

It's so hard to know that my grandmother is dying. It's much harder to know that she's dying without dignity. All I can do is work hard now to avoid the same fate myself, but what can I do for her? I feel so powerless, and so sad.

Gobble, Gobble

No matter how much weight I lose, I am still a fat girl at heart.

I think I always will be.

31 years of overeating can't be reversed by one year of Weight Watchers. Sure, I undid a lot of damage. I shed almost 100 pounds. I've learned portion control and built healthy eating habits.

But my brain is the brain of a fat girl. Nothing reinforces that more than food-centered events like Thanksgiving.

This year, like last year, I spent the few weeks leading up to Thanksgiving slowly panicking about food. What I would eat, how much I would eat, how much I would gain from eating. I pre-tracked my food in the Weight Watchers app and kept going back to balance out my Points. "Okay, maybe I can change the serving of mashed potatoes to a half serving so I can increase my dinner roll from a half to a full...and maybe I can only have a quarter of a slice of pumpkin pie (haha, yeah right, a quarter of a slice) so I can have a teaspoon of real butter instead of a spray butter..."

I had to eat twice again this year, once at my parents' and once at my girlfriend's family's. I must have gone into the WW app 25 times to change what I planned to eat. Luckily, the pre-tracking kind of worked for me. I knew what I could and couldn't have, and I didn't end up freaking out at the end of the day after accidentally going over my Points. I'm also aware now of just how much my family influences me to overeat, and I swallowed a couple Xanax to help cope with all of the food and emotional landmines my parents put in front of me. I came armed with a fruit salad I whipped up, made entirely of fresh fruit (pomegranate, pineapple, cranberries, apple, lime juice) topped with stevia and some pumpkin pie spice. Zero Points, so I had something to snack on whenever the cream puffs and cheese ball started calling my name. I felt really prepared.

I did face a somewhat unexpected hurdle, however: some CRAZY intense guilt over eating so much. Even though I tracked and knew exactly what I was eating, and I'd planned it all so meticulously, I still just felt incredibly gross and guilty for eating as much as I did. I was stuffed. Really stuffed. My family thinks it's funny that a vegetarian can get so full at a meat-centric feast, but I completely gorged myself. I was careful to be realistic about measuring my food and eyeballing what I couldn't measure, but even eating the small portions didn't make me feel better. After my meal, I felt the same sort of shame that I used to feel as a child after touching myself...like, dirty and embarrassed and ashamed and worried that my palms would grow hair. Or, well, in this case worried that I would gain 10 pounds overnight (which does totally happen to me, as scientifically impossible as that may seem).

Really, it was a terrible, sickening, and stomach-churning guilt. Maybe some of the churning was from the four deviled eggs I ate, or the mound of green bean casserole, but most of it was from a very uncomfortable inner monologue that went something like, "Gross. Why are you eating all of this? Ugh, why is it so so delicious? Seriously though, what are you doing? You're going to derail and defeat yourself. You've been making progress and here you go, throwing it all away from some toasted marshmallows baked on top of sweet potatoes...mmm sweet potatoes...stop it! Stop eating! Oh but it's so good..." I started to feel a little crazy and obsessive by the end of the day. And as I predicted, I still gained about five pounds this morning. And, naturally, that weight gain justified my shame and guilt, so now I feel even worse about eating so much.

That didn't stop me from bringing home some leftovers, though, or from polishing off the pecan tassies before I even went to bed last night (and subsequently using up the very last of my weekly Points allowance only ONE DAY into my Weight Watchers week...meaning I won't get more weekly Points until next Wednesday...). This food shaming is a new development for me, and I hate it. I hate it almost as much as I hate being hungry all the time.

But I'm still truckin' along. I'm too close to being under 200 pounds to even think about quitting. I may still be a fat girl inside but, on the outside, that fat girl is melting away, slowly but surely.

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.

Little Miss Know-It-All

Let me make this clear: I am NOT done losing weight. I have a LONG way to go before I am a healthy weight. I'm still obese according to the BMI charts (and, really, according to any charts). I'm not at the end of my journey.

Okay?

Yet recently, I've found myself thinking more and more about what other people are eating. Judging them. One of my best friends announced that she's going to see a doctor about bariatric surgery this week, and my grandmother is going at the end of the month (that's more understandable). I have made my feelings about surgery pretty clear, so of course I told my friend to try eating right, I pointed out what she's doing wrong, I urged her to join Weight Watchers before going under the knife. I kept nagging her about having unnecessary surgery instead of doing things the 'right' way.

And even worse, I have actually considered giving virtual strangers advice about losing weight.

That makes me feel so shitty.

91 pounds ago, I would have died if someone, even someone close to me, started talking to me about weight loss. I would have been so pissed. Like, who are they to judge me? But now I feel like a weight loss expert, as dumb as that sounds, and I have to fight the urge to pass my experience on to others.

There's a new girl at work who looks like I did a year ago. Probably right around 300 pounds, pretty and smart and mostly well-dressed. But I see her coming in wearing Crocs and pajama pants (which is totally what I wore before I started losing weight--Crocs, which I justified by the fact that they were actually "cute" for Crocs, because my feet hurt from hauling around 300+ pounds, and pajama pants because they stretch soooo much that I never had to think about what size I was.). And when I see that, I want to stop her and point out my knee-high wedge boots (yes, my calves are small enough for the first time EVER than I can wear wide knee-high boots) and my skinny jeans (finally small enough again to wear real blue jeans) and my cute sweater and tell her, "Girl, throw out those damn Crocs, come with me to Weight Watchers, and this time next year you'll have knee-high boots too."

Don't worry. I'm not a total psycho. I would never ever ever actually say that. But like I said, the urge is there.

I heard that early this year, Jennifer Hudson ran into Adele backstage at the Grammy's. J-Hud congratulated the lovely and amazingly talented Adele on her Grammy wins, and then said, "I used to be heavy just like you and gosh, Weight Watchers saved my life! I can hook you up."

OH MY GOD. I don't know how Adele resisted the impulse to clock that bitch upside her head. How dare Jennifer take an incredible moment in Adele's life and jerk her back to reality by talking about her weight? I tried to imagine something like that happening, like getting a promotion at work and having someone say, "Way to go! Now, maybe you should lose some weight and you can get another promotion!" I would just...I would die. I would pass out from rage. So rude and thoughtless and arrogant and...just so many things. Ugh.

But.....well...after losing 91 pounds, I can sort of...almost...see Jennifer's point. She knows what it's like. She knows how it feels to be in front of a crowd, thinking of nothing but how many eyes are on your stomach. She knows what it means to be happy but constantly conscious of your body. I mean, maybe Adele is really confident and maybe she really is happy with herself like she says in interviews, and maybe she really is 165 pounds like she claims (lolololol!!! seriously?!) and maybe all of the fat jokes and snide remarks really, truly don't bother her. Unlikely, but maybe.

The point isn't how Adele took the comments, though. The point is that Jennifer Hudson was so insanely blind to how her comments would be perceived. I mean, even if I think about saying stuff like that, I never would. I know how hurtful those kinds of seemingly helpful comments can be.

Random story: when I was young, like I think my freshman year of high school, 15 years old, I got an envelope in the mail one day. I was so excited--I never got mail, and it wasn't my birthday, and the postmark said California! I tore into it and my stomach dropped. It was an article cut from a newspaper talking about how some woman had lost a lot of weight by dieting and exercising. There was something written on the clipping, but I honestly seem to have blocked it out. I can't remember what it said. Something like, "There's always hope" or similar. I was so embarrassed, and my mom was standing there demanding to see what it was. I handed it to her and burst into tears. I scoured the article, the envelope, the handwriting, everything for some sign of who could have sent it. I didn't know anyone from California. I still have no idea who could have sent that to me. I always wondered if it was my dad maybe, sent to someone else to send to me from Cali. I don't know. All I know is that 15 years later, I can still feel that nauseating shame that hit me when I saw the article. So much embarrassment and hurt and anger. What a cruel thing to send to a child. It obviously didn't do any good anyway.

So I'll just keep watching the girl at work while she chows down on leftover Halloween candy and I'll silently judge her, hoping all the while that my weight loss eventually inspires her to give it a shot. Because even though I would never try to convince someone to lose weight, I do know what it's like to be her size and I know how incredible I feel now, and I really want to share that with someone.

Mirror Mirror

I have a strange relationship with the reflection in the mirror. Sometimes it's full-on loathing, sometimes it's a love/hate type of thing, and sometimes I don't recognize the girl at all. Today I think I recognize her but I'm not sure I like what I see.

Even though I've lost 91 pounds now and at the lightest of my entire adult life, I do NOT feel sexy. I've been chasing that feeling I had in college, even though I don't want that life anymore. I felt awesome about myself. Looking back, it's clear that I was suffering from serious self esteem issues and a gripping alcohol and drug problem...but at least when I looked in the mirror, I felt totally fucking hot. Right now, I do NOT feel hot. It's like even though I'm much smaller than I was a year ago, my body still looks the exact same. Still lumpy and saggy, my stomach still hanging down and my thighs still rippling. Smaller, but the same.

When I was very young, I used to stare at myself in the mirror for hours and hours, in love with my reflection. I had a dainty brass and glass dressing table with a little padded chair, and I'd sit there and stare at myself, admiring my eyelashes and my perfect lips and my icy gray-blue eyes. I would kiss my reflection with my eyes open, leaving Bonnie Bell lipstick prints on the glass.

As I grew older, I started shying away from the mirror. I saw my pudgy stomach, my braces, my glasses, my ill-advised fe-mullet. And I stopped feeling cute and more like a monster. Things only got worse the bigger I got, until in high school I could hardly go clothes shopping because I hated seeing myself in the dressing room mirror.

Then in college, something changed. I gained some confidence, I came out as a lesbian (and then decided I liked guys a little too), I rocked my nose ring and dyed my hair crazy colors. I felt good about myself. I had friends, I had fun, I didn't notice my size so much when I was fall-down drunk. I could go to frat parties charged up with drugs and vodka and not feel like people were judging me by my fat rolls.

But now I'm sober, and I see everything. I see the fat ripples above my knees, and I see the saggy skin around my ass (who knew that could even happen?!). I see my heart surgery scars and my double chin. Nothing about my reflection is pretty.

I can still find some moments of prettiness. If my hair is just right, and my mascara is on perfectly, I can see myself as I did when I was a child. Pretty lips, pretty eyes, smooth skin. But then my vision zooms out and my body comes into focus and I turn away.

I wonder if I'll still feel the same once I've lost all the weight I feel like losing. Somehow I doubt it. Decades of being disgusted by your own body won't be whisked away by losing weight. Like I said, I may be smaller but I'm still me. More's the pity.

Lighter But Not Smaller?

I've been trying to research this on the great wide web, but I'm falling short. There just isn't info out there that relates to what I'm going through.

See, I'm technically lighter right now than I've been my entire adult life. I weigh less than I did in high school and in college, and I'm losing weight week by week with Weight Watchers.

But I'm not SMALLER than I was in high school or college. At least, I don't think I am. I remember wearing a size 16 during the summer between high school and college comfortably, and now I can squeeze into size 16 jeans but they're definitely not as comfy as my size 18s. Like, I'm not complaining. The last jeans I bought were size 26 and I immediately tore out the tag, cut it into tiny pieces, wrapped it in toilet paper, and flushed it. I didn't want anyone else to see my size, and I got sick seeing it myself.

Right now, though, I don't feel my smallest. I've read that a lot of it is psychological and that it will take some time before my mental image catches up to my actual reflection in the mirror, but that's bullshit. I mean, yeah, I have a pretty warped idea of what I look like. We've established that months ago. But I am seriously bigger than I used to be, even though I weigh less. It's not in my head.

I have this really cool belt that I only kept around in case I could use it for a craft project--I bought it when I was 18, wore it for a year or so, and then grew out of it. It's been in my craft supplies for the past decade or so. I found it a few days ago and tried it on--it barely fit around the smallest part of my waist, which is way higher than I would have ever worn a pair of pants when I was 18. It was several inches from closing around my hips, where I would have actually worn it. So what gives? How did the belt fit when I weighed more than I do now, and it's not even close to fitting now that I'm lighter?

Is it just age? I'm so much fucking older now...are my organs sagging?! At age 31, are my intestines getting fat while I'm losing weight everywhere else? Did I just lose all of my boob weight, and now the weight has redistributed to my stomach? Yeah, that's a lovely image. Just what I want. Work my ass off to lose weight, only to find myself with no tits and no ass and a big, dumpy stomach hanging out in front. Or do old people just look bigger at the same weight? Is it possible that I've lost so much bone density that I will have to lose a lot more weight to be the same size? Like, I'm thirty-freakin-one. I shouldn't have osteoporosis, right? And I was a cheesetarian for a decade...I think I devoured more calcium than anyone else in the world. If anything, I should have calcium formations on my bones.

Ahh. This is just another of those obnoxious weight loss things that I don't fucking understand. I'm still not quitting. I'm still losing weight. I'll keep going until I'm happy with my weight and my size. But really...what the hell? It doesn't make sense, and I hate when stuff doesn't make sense. Maybe I should have gotten a biology major instead of a worthless Women's Studies degree...

Another Hungry Day

At this point, I've lost a little more than 85 pounds on Weight Watchers. I'm actually smaller right now than I was all through college. In fact, I can only remember weighing this amount or less two times since middle school: once was the summer between high school and college when I went on Atkins pretty religiously for a couple months and got down to 211 pounds for a day (before shooting back up to 215...but still. And then I started eating like a human again and gained it all back.). The second time was the summer after college when I was super poor and had to choose between food and vodka and I chose vodka for a month or so...I starved myself down to 216 pounds. Again, that was only for about a week before my grandparents took pity on me and started buying me food.

The rest of the time since middle school, my weight has swung wildly from 225 pounds up to my highest (recorded) weight of 304 pounds. Now my scale has been fluctuating 213 pounds and 219 pounds. Not bad.

Buuuut...I am STILL OBSESSED WITH FOOD.

I wish things had changed. I wish I could live like a normal person and eat when I'm hungry, socialize without thinking about food the entire time, plan my day without thinking first about what I'll eat that day. But that's not me. That's not my life. Instead, I think about food when I wake up in the morning. Hell, sometimes I dream about food. Yeah. Some weekends when I have nothing going on and can sleep in as late as I want to, I get up ONLY because I want to eat.

There are all those little tricks people tell you about, like doing something else for 15 minutes and then eating only if you still really want the food after 15 minutes. Or having a little nibble of whatever you're craving and then stopping because your body doesn't care how much it gets, only that it gets something. Well...that's bullshit. When I try to do something else and reevaluate if I want the food in 15 minutes, I just spend a full 15 minutes thinking entirely about food. And if I just have a nibble, then it's even worse and I can't think about anything else in the world until all of the food is gone. Nibbles do not work for me. I am too obsessed with eating and with being full.

Weight Watchers has been amazing in helping me lose weight, and it kind of works with my food obsession. I can track and pre-track and plan my meals well in advance and, you know, it takes a certain kind of person to weigh and measure every morsel of food that you consume. But it also means that I can never just 'let go' and eat without thinking about it. That's a good thing, but it's also incredibly frustrating.

Like today, for instance. I am HUNGRY. Or that's the message my brain is getting. I know I'm not actually, literally hungry. I have food in my stomach. I am eating roasted new potatoes and onions and zucchini with vegetable broth and barbecue and shaved parmesan and it's spicy and warm and delicious, but I still want more. More of anything. I want to cram food into my mouth until I feel sick.

You know that scene in Matilda? Where the Trunchbull makes that kid Bruce eat the whole chocolate cake and he's all sweating and everything thinks he's going to pass out and die? Yeah, I could totally eat that cake. Not a question. There is no doubt in my mind that I could take a fork, settle myself in front of it, and just devour the entire freaking thing. Totally. And I'd love it. And I would ask for milk to wash it down.

Of course, a single slice of cake is something like 14 Points Plus on Weight Watchers. I get 34 Points per day and I am stingy as hell with them, so there's no way Cook's chocolate cake is coming anywhere near my lips. But I could do it. And it would be fucking awesome.

So when does this food obsession go away? Does it ever? Will I ever be able to see an office email about cupcakes without spending the rest of the day eyeing the cupcakes, weighing the pros and cons of eating a cupcake, wondering how good the cupcake is, getting panicky that too many people are eating cupcakes before I decide whether or not I want one? Or is this my life now? Where every food commercial makes me start to drool, and just driving past KFC gives me thoroughly un-vegetarian-like cravings?

When my best friend died two years ago, I thought the pain would never go away. I thought that every day would be a gray haze and I would never be okay again. Slowly, somehow, the pain receded. Instead of thinking about him every minute, I thought about him maybe every 15 minutes. And then maybe every hour. And then a couple times a day. Now, I love him and miss him and think about him at random wonderful and heartbreaking times, but it's not constant. I think of him when his favorite song comes on, or when I read a CNN article that would have gotten his attention. The point is, it got better. It took awhile, but it did definitely get better.

My food cravings though? Not better. It's been more than a year since I started Weight Watchers, and I'm thinking about food just as much as every. WHEN WILL IT END?!

For now...fuck it all, I'm getting that cupcake they emailed about. There are only three left and it's driving me fucking crazy. At least it's a mini cupcake.

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!

My Pilonidal Cyst Story

Gather round, children, and prepare to be amazed and revolted by this captivating tale of...a cyst. A really big cyst. A really big, gross, humiliating, excruciating, recurring cyst.

When I had heart surgery in August, I expected to be in a lot more pain than I was. However, after approximately a decade of dealing with one of the most painful and embarrassing medical problems imaginable, the surgery pain seemed to pale in comparison. No matter how much my incision hurt, or how much my cut muscles ached, I could remind myself that the pain of my cyst during a flare-up was so significantly worse that my surgery didn't seem so bad after all.

My pilonidal cyst is something I try to keep a secret from as many people as possible. It's just so awful. I already bared all, though, while oversharing about my topical yeast infections, so I might as well throw this out there. I'm having a flare-up right now, so it's all I can think about.

There is not much information available about  my kind of pilonidal cyst because everyone's cyst experience is different. I suspect that people with issues similar to mine just don't talk about it. So I'm going to talk about it. Prepare to be grossed out. I was going to post a picture of mine but it's still too embarrassing--just try a Google image search instead, and look for the most disturbing and painful unpopped pilonidal abscess possible.

At the beginning of my college summer vacation when I was 21, I started feeling like I had bruised my tailbone. I was drinking all the time while also taking Paxil for my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (following a massive fire I was in and in which I lost all my belongings). I was blacking out multiple times every week, so I assumed it was entirely possible that I had fallen down drunk. My tailbone kept getting worse and worse, though, and after a week or so I could barely sit down. That's when I felt the lump rising. It was at the top of my butt crack, slightly to the right, and I could feel a squishy bump about the size of a walnut half under the skin. It was incredibly tender and hot to the touch. I tried looking it up online but didn't know how to describe it, so I didn't get any useful results.

After a week or so of increasing pain, it came to a head one night while I stayed up shaking and sweating. I think I was probably going into a state of shock or something. No amount of alcohol could dull the pain, and there was no position in which I was even remotely comfortable. I couldn't sit, I couldn't lie down, I couldn't even stand. I remember crawling to the bathroom that night because I couldn't get up, and I passed out from the pain. I woke up on the floor in a pool of sweat with the cyst bigger and redder and hotter than ever. The school clinic was closed for the summer and I didn't want to pay to go to the hospital, so I didn't know what to do. I was so scared. As it grew, I wondered if it was cancer. Or some kind of boil? Or like a chip from my tailbone broke off, lodged itself in my muscles, and caused an infection?

After I woke up on the bathroom floor, I tried exploring it more. It hurt too much to poke at it, but it really felt like it was a small balloon filling up with something, and that if I could just break through the skin it would come out. I gathered the equipment I could think of: a razor blade and a thumb tack (I couldn't find a needle). First I tried the razor blade. It was hard to see but I just numbed it with ice and tried slashing across the top with the razor. I hoped the infection was close enough to the surface that it would burst and I would be fine. Unfortunately, the infection was deeper than I thought and the razor only succeeded in hurting me. I tried the thumb tack next, but the pain was too bad for me to apply much pressure. I could get the point in, but it didn't go far enough in to help.

I stayed up all night, trembling and fighting to stay conscious. The next morning after fainting in the bathroom happened to be my first day as a summer intern at the library. I made it to the library with my roommate/best friend (the one I've mentioned who died so tragically and ripped my world apart) but I was literally standing up while driving there--I couldn't put my butt on the seat of my truck, so I held myself up with the steering wheel and drove as carefully as I could. Seriously, though, driving while standing is not a good thing. We made it there but just barely.

When we got to the library I hobbled in, still unable to walk or sit and wearing a skirt because pants would touch the cyst. We began the first day tour, during which I was still shaking and sweating and thinking of nothing but the mind-numbingly intense, throbbing, unrelenting pain. About fifteen minutes into the orientation, the pain just suddenly stopped. I could take a deep breath finally. I stopped shaking. My head cleared. I felt blissful relief.

Then I started smelling this terrible smell. It was like a container of week-old turkey salad (the kind with dark turkey chunks and mayonnaise) that was just pulled open. Just a strong, meaty, gross smell. I couldn't figure out what the stink was, but I was so relieved by the  overwhelming absence of pain that I didn't really care.

My best friend then grabbed my arm and he whispered for me to go to the bathroom. Thinking maybe I had food in my teeth or had started my period, I excused myself and went to the restroom. As soon as I got in the stall, I pulled down my jean skirt and felt hot liquid on my legs. I touched my butt with my fingertips and was horrified to feel them slipping in thick slime. I lunged out of the stall with my skirt down and locked the deadbolt on the main door (the bathroom was empty besides me). The smell was even worse with my skirt down, and I began frantically wiping myself with paper towels. There was pus and blood everywhere. It looked like someone had been murdered. Or like I sat on a blender full of animals and turned on the blades. Just totally disgusting. And it wouldn't stop coming. As I gingerly pushed around the lump, more and more pus and blood oozed out. It was this foul brown gurgling stuff, and no amount of paper towels was going to work.

I cleaned myself up as much as I could and fled the library, praying that no one would see me. I made it back to the apartment where I could see everything better in a mirror, and just kept pushing to get more and more nasty brown goo out of me. The sticky red blood mingled with the hot white pus to make a thick marbled brown substance, and the week of festering had made it smell like rot and death.

I was not in any significant pain from the moment it had burst in the library, so I could easily press my fingers around the edge to make the liquid pulse out. It took hours it seemed before I had coaxed all of the infection out, and the skin felt loose over the now-empty cavity. I did end up going back to work the next day and told everyone I had just thrown up, but I suspect they knew something was more awful had happened. I told my best friend that it was an injury from my tailbone and he was kind enough to pretend to believe me.

I dove into researching it more and finally found the most likely culprit: a pilonidal cyst. That means 'nest of hair' (I KNOW! So gross!) and I have read many comments claiming that the pain of a pilonidal cyst flare-up is worse than the pain of natural, undrugged childbirth. I believe it. The pain is intolerable, and the shame is unbearable. There's lots of great information out there about what it is (one of my favorites is the Pilonidal Support Alliance), but no one is really truly certain what causes it or how to fix it.

There are certain factors that are common amongst sufferers: they are mostly male, mostly overweight, and mostly very hairy. Poor hygiene, sitting too long, and not shaving can also affect your chances of having a flare-up. So, yeah, not exactly something I want to share: hey, everyone, I have a totally gross cyst that comes from being fat, lazy, dirty, hairy, and not a lady. So yes, this is another one of those gross fat girl things. Not all fat girls get them, but I don't think I would have it if I wasn't fat. I think my ass fat makes my butt crack deeper, which causes more hair and stuff to get caught in there, and apparently led to my current situation.

Now, some people have pilonidal sinuses, which cause them to weep out pus and blood, but they don't get the abscesses or cysts because the infection isn't trapped. Some of those people have to wear diapers because so much nasty stuff leaks out of their butt crack. I am here to tell you that I would MUCH rather have that than have my cyst. Instead of having a sinus, or a tiny hole that allows it to drain, I instead just collect the infected fluids in a cavity between my ass cheeks. This cavity gets bigger every time I have a cyst because the infection tunnels into my tissue, and because I don't have a sinus to drain it, I have to wait until the skin is stretched so incredibly tight because of the sheer quantity of pus and blood that the skin bursts open and sprays infection all over the place.

After that first eruption (my best friend and I called it my 'anal volcano'), I ended up getting a flare-up around once a year. It was usually a week of total torture--unable to move, unable to even wear jeans because of the pain, unable to go to work or drive or sleep. I kept it a secret from everyone I could. Sometimes it ruptures in the most awful places, like a gas station bathroom or on vacation. It's terribly inconvenient and ridiculously painful, but the surgery to correct it is also really painful, really awful (they sometimes sew a 'marsupial pouch' which sounds so so so gag-me-gross), and totally not guaranteed to work. Some people have had the surgery over and over and the cysts just keep coming back.

I have had probably 10-12 cysts since then, and I have taken care of most of them myself. I've spent a decade honing my care. I learned that antibiotics won't help, and nothing really kills the pain except getting it to pop. Sometimes if I take enough hot baths with Epsom salt the cyst will weaken and burst. Sometimes if I alternate a really hot heating pad with an ice pack, the abrupt change in temperature will cause it to rupture. Sometimes I make a compress of crushed garlic that is said to thin the skin and help the infection. The bad part is that, even with these remedies, it still won't burst until it's ready. I have to honestly feel like I'm dying for around 48 hours (that's after a week of intense but not near-fatal pain) before anything can make it explode. And sometimes they just never do burst--luckily, I have only been forced to seek medical attention for two of them.

Once the emergency care clinic doctors sliced me open with a scalpel but didn't go deep enough--some blood oozed out, but the cyst did not burst. I was in more pain from the scalpel cut, but after another day or so of the infection brewing, the cyst was stretched so tight that the weakened skin from the incision split open and it burst. Whew. The most recent time was also the most horrible. This cyst had been going on for almost two weeks, and it was huge and purple. I had gotten desperate and had tried cutting it with razors, scissors, needles, tacks, and even a syringe. Nothing helped. It was around the size of an egg, and I couldn't do ANYTHING. No walking, so sitting, no lying down. I had to miss work for a couple days and I was out of options. So I went to the emergency care and the doctor there was clearly horrified and disgusted. He could barely speak, but told me that it was beyond what he could care for, and told me to go straight to the hospital ER. He even called ahead to help me get in. When I got there (I rode in the back seat, laying down on my stomach and crying...there was no way I could sit) they gave me a pain killer but it definitely did not help. The ER nurse made me lie down and she just cut it right open. I felt the liquid gush between my legs and all over my back, but she didn't stop. Instead of allowing me that moment of relief, she told me that she had to scrape out the pockets of infection or it would just come right back. She stuck something in the gaping hole and I couldn't stop screaming. She scraped and the way the small pockets burst, it made me imagine them as the pulp inside an orange--those fat little envelopes full and ready to pop. But she just kept going. And going. I like to think I have a pretty high tolerance for pain after dealing with this for so many years, but she pushed me to new limits. I didn't think it would ever stop.

Finally, she finished scraping and started cleaning me out. That was horrible but not quite as soul-shatteringly painful. Then she packed the hole full of gauze and told me to have it removed in two weeks. When I got home, I couldn't even look at it. The single time I glanced at it in the mirror, I saw the bruised and angry purple flesh bulging around a curly gauze tail that was pink with blood. I felt more like a pig than ever. When I went to the doctor to take it out, I had to hold onto the exam table while he pulled it out--it must have been three feet of bloody gauze, and the feeling of it being pulled out of my body made my skin crawl.

Since that last ER experience, I have tried desperately to avoid letting my cyst get that bad. If I get any skin that feels like a scab I can potentially peel off, I do, because I feel like it makes the rest of the skin thinner and therefore easier to burst. I clean there regularly, I avoid sitting for long periods on my tailbone, I never wear thongs, and any time I start to feel tender around my tailbone I immediately start spraying Bactine and applying hot and cold presses.

Around a year ago, I had called into work and while explaining to my boss why I couldn't come in, I lost control and started sobbing hysterically into the phone. The pain and embarrassment were just too much together. I'm glad it happened, though, because she was able to introduce me to something that one of her former colleagues had used for the same issue: ichthammol ointment. It smells like tar and stains everything and makes an enormous mess, but it helps thin the skin and, instead of bursting, the cyst just kind of starts leaking out after a couple days. I've only used this treatment twice, but each time it worked like a charm. Since it didn't burst, I don't think all of the infection got out either time, but it got rid of my pain so I can't complain. I can't believe more people don't know about this. I wish I had found out about it years ago--it would have saved me some serious pain. I mean, pain so bad that I can't help but think about killing myself. Hopefully someone searching for a way to help their pilonidal cyst will stumble across this page and try the ichthammol ointment. It's been a true miracle for me, and I haven't even had a cyst flare-up for almost a year. The ichthammol is super cheap and I just smear it on and then cover it with a small cut up square of washcloth held in place with medical tape.

But...now it's back. And now the ointment isn't working. And now I'm terrified. Since my recent heart surgery, all of my doctors have stressed over and over how important it is to keep myself from getting any kinds of infection. Anything, even something as small as a cut in my gums, can potentially lead to bacteria getting into my bloodstream and forming on my brand new heart valve. So I'm really really scared. It's 5am but the pain is so bad I can't sleep. I'm sitting on a heating pad with ichthammol ointment smeared on my butt, but it's not helping. I had to leave work early for the past two days. I almost passed out when I drove over a pot hole on the way home. I went to an art gallery opening tonight but we had to leave because I was so afraid someone would brush against my butt and I'd faint or scream. I keep accidentally bursting into tears, and it hurts to do anything. Since the abscess is basically between my butt cheeks, every time I move my butt cheeks squeeze around it and it feels like torture.

I had hoped that losing weight would also let me lose this cyst. Since it's what I consider a fat girl problem, I thought maybe, just maybe, it would disappear. Enough hard work and I wouldn't have to deal with it again.

So I'm doubly sad that I'm still facing this awful thing. And I'm so scared. I don't want the infection to reach my heart. I'm hoping it will burst on its own. Otherwise...I might be back in the hospital tomorrow. I'm not one for prayers, but I'll be praying for a miracle right now.

Update: It burst! Woohoo! Ichthammol success again!

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.