And I Was Not Lost Or Found

Still losing weight...in fact, for a few brief hours, until I ate a doughnut, I had lost HALF of myself. From 317 pounds down to 158.4...literally half of what I used to be. I've fluctuated back up to 162 pounds, which is only 2 pounds away from the fake weight I'd lied about when I was 15 and getting my learner's permit (they let my fat 190 pound ass put down 160 lbs and it's stayed on my license like that for 2 decades now). And despite all the weight lost, my skin isn't even too saggy--in fact, if you don't look at my thighs and stomach, I look like a "normal" 160 pound woman.

BEFORE (317 lbs or so)

NOW (160-180 lbs)

So why do I still want to kill myself so badly?

I always thought that by now, losing weight, getting down to a healthy size, fitting into sexy size medium dresses and strutting in 6 inch stilettos, turning heads, on the arm of my boyfriend, the literal love of my life and best friend and everything I ever hoped for in a man, with me looking exactly how I always wanted to look, I thought by now my life would be perfect. I would be happy. My depression would just...disappear.

Boy, was I wrong.

I spent last weekend trying to find anything in my truck that would get through enough skin to open the veins in my wrist. I only managed to mangle myself with my house keys, leaving a bloody raw mess with me very much alive, just annoyed and in pain. Trying to gnaw my way through with my teeth was even more painful, and it's also probably why now, a week later, that wrist is oozing pus and throbbing with pain. It's a good thing my parents still have all six of my guns (they removed them after my suicide attempt and subsequent mental institution stay back in May) because I just didn't have the courage or energy to find another way to kill myself. So I gave up, came home, and lived another day.

Depression is a funny thing. Not, like, funny "ha-ha" obviously. But people look at you and think, well, you're doing better than XYZ people, you aren't homeless, you have people who love you...if you are considering suicide, you are a selfish, worthless, self-centered piece of shit. And everyone close to you wants to make depression and suicidal thoughts about themselves. Like, "Oh yeah, nothing I do for you is good enough, why do I even try? I gave you XYZ and you weren't magically cured, there's obviously something wrong with you!" Yes. Yes, there is something wrong with me. It's called fucking depression. It doesn't mean I don't love you...it just means I hate myself more.

I have heard several times lately what a pathetic loser I am, and all I can say is, you think I don't know? Trust me, I'm much more disgusted by myself than you could ever be. But thanks for the extra salt in that wound.

Right now, this isn't my usual annual seasonal depression, or even the trauma that comes with making it through September (the anniversary of the deaths of my favorite dog J, my best friend Rob, and my good friend from college Monroe who finally killed herself in 2010 after also suffering decades of depression). No, right now it's very specifically because I can't find a job and I am FUCKING BROKE. Like...BROKE BROKE. No savings, checking account overdrawn, no bills being paid. My unemployment benefits ran out weeks ago. If my boyfriend wasn't paying for the mortgage and utilities, I would absolutely be homeless. My parents lent me $1,000 in May when I got out of the mental ward, and made it clear that's all the help they would give me. I cashed in my 401k, emptied my piggy banks, plucked the quarters out of my cardboard state quarters map. I have sold every book and movie I own that's worth anything. I've sold my high school jewelry supplies for the scrap prices. I'm selling off my prized Funko Pop! Vinyl collection piece by piece on Ebay, along with everything else I own of any value. I donated plasma until it made me so sick and my veins were so bruised and blown I couldn't donate any more.

And yes, I've been looking for work. I submitted more than 750 applications now. SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY JOB APPLICATIONS AND I STILL DON'T HAVE A FUCKING JOB. I've gone on every interview I've been invited to, and taken every phone interview offered. I've updated my resume and cover letter and professional recommendations literally thousands of times. I've updated LinkedIn, Behanced, every career website that exists.

So...I'm just a fucking loser.

No one wants to hire me. For anything. So now I'm desperate. Like, considering nefarious activities desperate. I have never felt like such a loser.

When I was a kid, I was really fucking smart. Like, bizarrely smart. Pulled-out-of-class-for-free-periods-cuz-I-already-knew-everything-they-were-teaching smart. When I took the IQ aptitude test for the gifted and intelligent program, the principal told my parents that my score was higher than any other student they had ever placed. I sailed through high school, got into every college I applied to (with scholarships). After college, I was immediately hired making $45k, way more than almost every one of my friends, and when I moved to another company, I was literally asked to apply for a promotion within, like, six months. From there I rose through the ranks until I was managing a department with 70+ subordinates and a $60 million dollar budget. I bought a truck. Bought a house. Started collecting stupid shit, like 80s toys and antique mantilla combs, investing tens of thousands of dollars feathering my nest, stocking my many closets, accumulating shoes and purses like we used to collect pogs back in the day.

Then my company got bought out, my job was eliminated last November, and my world came crashing down. I had finally found a boyfriend who I can actually see myself being with until the end of time, and suddenly I became not a partner but an albatross. My severance ran out fast, then the 401k (assisted by my much-needed purchase of a Macbook and an amazing Caribbean cruise), then my unemployment. Throughout it all, I was sort of idly eating my way through the days, but thanks to the gastric sleeve surgery last July, I was still losing weight. Not much at first, not nearly what I'd expected: in the first 3 months after surgery, when most people lose the majority of their weight, I only dropped maybe 50 pounds. I was discouraged and just resigned myself to being one of the people who gastric sleeve fails. But I kept losing, slowly but surely, and by the time my cruise rolled around in January, I was  down to 195, under 200 for the first time in the adult life, and rocking two piece swimsuits on the beach and wandering around with a wisp of cloth from a beachwear stand in Cancun. My weight fluctuated, as it does, but when I was admitted to the psych ward in May, I was down to 175. I didn't expect to lose any more after that, but over the past few months, I've slowly gotten down to 165, then briefly under 160. I'm at 162 today, but hoping that my forced starvation diet will get me down to 155. That is solidly under half of what I used to weigh, and it would be a "normal" weight according to the stupid fucking accursed BMI chart that's haunted me since my 5th grade physical exam when the doctor pointed out for the first time that I was considered "overweight" and on my way to "obese". Never in a million years did I think then that I'd eventually sail way past "obese" straight to "morbid obesity" and stay there for an eternity.

But...now I'm almost "normal". I look like a normal person. When I get dressed to leave the house, I check myself out in the mirror and barely even consider if my stomach is "hanging out" like I always obsessed. I even stopped wearing corsets and waist trainers because I'm more comfortable without them. Right now, I'm wearing a medium black camisole, no bra because my boobs are so small now, under an XXL hoodie that just barely fit when I bought it, and it's literally hanging to my knees. I have on Gap jeans, real jeans, no stretch, size 12, and they could definitely go down a size or 4. Plus socks pulled up to my knees, when before they barely fit around my calves, and giant purple Italian Moon Boots keeping my legs warm--when I originally bought them, I had to cut the inside lining to get them to pull up high enough to not look stupid, which left them still bunched awkwardly, but now they don't even touch my calves even with jeans tucked inside. I have a dainty ring, size 6.5, the kind I could never wear before because the thin band would have been lost in a roll of fat, even on my finger. This entire outfit is just plain and comfy, but a year ago would have been too tight and uncomfortable to even wear.

Yet...yeah, I'm still fucking depressed.

I believe I've shared this on here before, but: when I was a little girl, every wish I made, every time a cardinal landed and I got through the alphabet or when I saw the first star in the sky, I made the same wish. I wanted to grow up to be thin and beautiful and to find a knight in shining armor. I didn't even need a prince, just a knight. Now I am, if not thin and beautiful, at least approaching normal and decent to look at. And I certainly found a prince, a man willing to rescue this fucked up damsel in a great deal of distress. It seems my dreams came true.

But yeah. I am STILL depressed.

I am hoping things will be better once I get a job, once I'm pulling my weight and don't feel like such a loser. I'll have insurance again and can get back on my psych meds, which will definitely help. Hopefully I'll keep losing weight, at least enough to say I was "normal" at one point in my life.

Even then, though, there's no guarantee that my depression is gonna go away. I've mentioned before, I first seriously considered suicide at age 9. My mom was diagnosed with lupus, they said she wouldn't live to see me finish 5th grade, and I decided that I wasn't going to live without her. She was lucky and stuck around (she's still sick but also still alive, thank god) and so did I. But the thoughts never left. 25 years of suicidal thoughts don't just disappear because life is going well. And when life is NOT going well, there's not much I can do. So I read. I write. I shoot my bow and arrow. I have as much sex as possible. I try to find reasons to live.

Each job rejection makes it that much harder.

But I'm still here.

And I'm going to try to stay.

As hard as it is.

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?

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.

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.

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?

Tastes Like Shame

My dad has never been proud of me.

That's just a fact. I was always one of those overachieving, desperate-for-approval kids, and that spilled over into my adult life. I like to think that I hit pretty much all of the standard checkpoints that proud parents want to see their kid achieve. I did everything right.

Here's a recap of my charmed existence:
I never once got detention.
I never failed a class.
I was in the "gifted and talented" class all through school.
I was always in the 99 percentile for those annual standardized tests.
I got great scores on my SATs and ACTs.
I was a Girl Scout for 13 years.
I was active in sports throughout school, and I did a decent job.
I graduated high school with Honors, Distinction, and my name was in the commencement package more than anyone else in my class: as a member of the German Honor Society, National Honor Society, National Forensics League, the Journalistic Honor Society, the Honors class, and as the designer of the damn thing.
I got a full-ride scholarship to two good colleges.
I got into an elite private university, where I double majored.
I've never wrecked my car (knock on wood).
I've never been arrested (knock again).
I didn't end up pregnant, in rehab, behind bars, etc.
I've held down decent jobs since I was 16.
I worked my way up from the bottom of my company, and I'm now a department manager overseeing two teams of professionals.
I'm well-paid and consistently recognized at work for my achievements.
I'm in a healthy, committed relationship of nearly eight years.
I own a nice house and a nice vehicle and I go on nice vacations on a regular basis.

Basically, I've lived my life to be a good kid. I'm not bragging. On the contrary, I wish I would have had more fun when I was younger and would have focused less on being perfect. But I never got into trouble. I worked hard. I make good money. As far as my parents know, I'm a healthy and wholesome person (they don't need to know about my college exploits, and as bad as I was in college, it never affected my school work, my grades, or besmirched my pristine reputation with something like a criminal record).

Most parents would be proud.

Not my dad.

As someone so desperate for approval, it was always so soul-crushing to know that my dad was never, ever proud of me. Sure, he was happy that I graduated. Happy that I'm working. I guess it could be worse. But I've never felt him look at me with anything akin to pride.

Until Friday.


We were at a memorial for my aunt's boyfriend who died suddenly of a stroke last week. On Friday, the entire family gathered at my aunt's house for a ceremony (including the release of dozens of tie-dye balloons, some bright Chinese lanterns, and a rousing version of "Rambling Man"...a totally fitting tribute for the dude who died). I was in the kitchen, hovering over my healthy bean dip and trying to ignore the cupcakes, cookies, pumpkin roll, and pie sitting next to me. I heard my dad calling me into the front room so I wiped my face and shuffled in there.

He motioned for my grandfather and great-uncle to look at me. I stood there and my dad stood next to me, and he waved his arms at me and said, "Doesn't she look great?!"

I felt faint. At first, I thought maybe it was a cruel joke. It certainly wouldn't be the first time. But no. He truly wanted to show me off to his own father. I smiled and self-deprecated ("Oh, yeah, haha, I still have a ways to go...").

Well...it was pretty surreal, but he looked proud. For the first time ever, I felt like he was happy I was his daughter.

I quickly made my way outside to collect myself and I felt a little sick. I mean, yes, my dad is a total asshole (or see here or here...). I shouldn't have been surprised. But it made me really sad that it took losing weight to finally win his approval. I feel like if I ever gain this weight back, his pride will again turn to disgust. Maybe that's for the best--I don't need someone around who discounts everything else I've done with my life and who only cares about what I look like. This pride feels an awful lot like shame.

But still...it's nice to feel like I've made my father proud. Finally.

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...

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!

"The Dark Still Nurses Its Secret"

So, it happened. The thing I've been dreading for so long.

My girlfriend found out how much I weigh.

She also knows how much I've lost, which means some pretty simple math will lead or has led to the realization that I started out over 300 pounds. Which means she knows how fat I was...and am.

I'm so sad right now.

She was scrolling through my birthday photos on my phone, and I suddenly remembered the photo I took of the scale at 250 pounds. I tried to grab the phone back, but I could tell she saw it. I burst into tears, started sobbing, and she came over to hug me and tell me it didn't matter and she loves me anyway.

That doesn't help.

I am so ashamed. I'm so ashamed that I got to over 300 pounds. I feel like since I kept it a secret from everyone, I didn't have to really deal with it. I started Weight Watchers, dropped below 300 pounds, and I've been working really hard ever since then to distance myself from that weight.

I should be really proud that I'm under 250 pounds now, and I did feel proud about it yesterday. That was, until she saw the picture. That changes everything. I feel like I can't even be happy about getting down to under 250 pounds, because the shame of being over 300 pounds is now so fresh. I had put it behind me until she saw the picture. Now she knows, and even though she didn't say it, I think she's got to be disgusted by me now. How many people can actually eat themselves to over 300 pounds? I put on every single ounce myself. Bite by bite, I ballooned up to 304...and I could have let that information stay in my past, if she hadn't found that picture.

I mean, I always knew eventually that I would tell people how much I weighed and how much I had lost and they would do the math and know how much I started out as, but I had hoped that wouldn't happen until I was under 200 pounds finally. I'm so far away from there. I feel too close to 300 pounds right now. It was starting to feel far behind me, until now...now, I just feel like the same big slob.

I'm just so, so ashamed. So embarrassed. So sad. I made her go to bed before me last night, and I snuck under the covers after staying up crying in the dark for a couple of hours. I pretended to be asleep when she kissed me goodbye this morning. She texted me, and I haven't been able to bring myself to text her back. I just can't look at her now that she knows that I let myself get to over 300 pounds.

And the saddest part was that my birthday was so great yesterday until that happened. Now, I can't even think about my birthday without feeling that stomach-dropping fear and anguish that hit me when I realized she had scrolled back too far and got to the picture of the scale. The picture that wouldn't have existed if I wasn't so stupid and vain. When everyone at work this morning asked me how my birthday was, I lied and pretended like it was fine. It wasn't fine. It was fine until she found the picture, and then it was ruined.

I honestly don't know how I can go home today. I can't face her. I can't look into her eyes and risk seeing her disgust.

Before I made her go to bed, I told her to never talk about it again. I told her to forget and pretend like nothing ever happened. But what's done is done. My secret is out. She knows.

I plan to keep going and trying to lose weight, but I feel like my motivation has been stripped away. After being so happy yesterday after weigh in, I didn't expect to be so sad today.

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.

Viva La Cancun

There's something coming up that's giving me a lot of anxiety. Coincidentally (...Ironically? I never use this correctly...), it's a relaxing beach vacation.

I've faced similar fear and apprehension several times since I started Weight Watchers in August. First the State Fair, then my Disney World vacation in mid-October (during the Food and Wine festival...I was like Templeton in Charlotte's Web...a smorgasbord-orgasbord! But I tracked vigilantly, walked a ton, and still lost weight). Then I faced then Halloween, then Thanksgiving, and finally Christmas.

Now I have an all-inclusive vacation coming up at a five star resort in Cancun. It's for a work function, and my company is infamous for the amount of alcohol we're able to consume in any given situation. This trip is starting out with a private, chartered flight to Mexico with drinks on-board. When we arrive, there's a welcoming party with an all-you-can-eat buffet and an open bar. EVERYTHING is paid for, totally included. There's going to be a mini-fridge in the room that's restocked daily, and everything is free. Seriously. There are restaurants all throughout the resort, all included. They have 24 hour room service that ALSO delivers alcohol to your door...for free! We're having cocktail parties with booze and super fancy feasts, pool lounging days with cabana boys plying us with mixed drinks, beach parties with VIP buffets and private mixologists. As diligently as I plan to track everything I eat, I just know I'm not going to be able to stop myself from taking advantage of at least some of the deliciousness.

The closest I've ever had to anything like this was a cruise early in 2012. There was plenty of food, but we also had activities every day that required a lot of walking, and we had to pay for all of our alcohol. This time, with an unlimited supply and no fees and only a single actual physical activity planned over the four day trip, I can only imagine how much weight I'll manage to pack on.

I'm really trying to think positively, but I don't know how I'm going to react when I get confronted with so much food and alcohol. I've severely cut back on my drinking simply because I don't have enough points to get drunk every other night, but in the past I was a bit of a lush. Of course, once I get a couple of drinks in me I start craving all kinds of fatty foods and my inhibition and self control go right out of the window.

I've got to brace myself for Mexico and try to keep myself in check, but I don't want to miss out on anything either. Isn't that a new name for an old thing? "FOMO: Fear Of Missing Out." It's always been an issue for me, and I definitely don't want to miss out on VIP buffets and open bars.

The problem is, I can't trust myself to turn down free food and liquor.

I'm just going to have to eat like a saint until then, track like a maniac while I'm south of the border, and then fasten my belt again once I'm back home.

And maybe light a candle and keep my fingers crossed that Cancun isn't going to derail me completely. I've come too far to blow it now.

(Oh, and weigh in is tomorrow too. Ay carumba.)

15 Foot Canoe

I have now officially lost the equivalent of...an elephant's heart.

Kind of gross.

Really gross.

Seriously, how is an elephant's heart that big? I can't...I can't even imagine. I like the elephant heart on the right better...

But it's also the equivalent of a 15 foot canoe! That's pretty fucking awesome. Definitely cannot fathom carrying a 15 foot canoe around with me everywhere I went.

I actually lost 5.8 pounds (again) this week, so now I'm officially down to 257.8 pounds from 304, for a total loss of 46.2 pounds. Right on!

I didn't eat very well last week so I'm a little surprised, but I'm just going to accept this as a good thing. Of course I'm overanalyzing it anyway and convincing myself that the loss was due to some other random factor and I'll gain it all back next week. Seriously, though, 5.8 pounds? That's a lot. It's an average Chihuahua. It's almost an entire human's skin. (Yeah, the reference list is proving very helpful.)

I'm especially surprised considering that I found my girlfriend's secret snack drawer. Everything has been stashed in the sponge drawer all along. I don't do dishes so I haven't gotten into that drawer for so long. When I opened the drawer (looking for a Chinese food menu--another poor choice this week, but I was tired and cranky and hungry so don't judge me) I think I could have blacked out for a minute--when my eyes refocused, there was a mound of Snicker's and Hershey Nugget wrappers on the counter and the sweet taste of chocolate in my mouth. I counted them all and tracked them, but I ate a LOT.

Plus, I got another shipment from Macy's (yes, I have a serious addiction to Macy's clearance) and I ordered everything in a 2x again and it all fit perfectly. Yay :) Celebrating the little things right now!

Ugly Green Monster

I think I mentioned earlier that I am not very tech-savvy. I’m not hip to all the new-fangled social media these youngsters are using. I’m really pretty curmudgeonly for being only 30 years old. One of the few things I do use is Facebook. I use it in a more voyeuristic way—I very rarely post anything. I tend to just creep around, liking statuses, and peeking into everyone’s lives through their Facebook posts.

Since the New Year, though, I’ve avoided Facebook like the plague. Why? Because I can’t fucking stand watching all of these idiots posting “I lost 6 pounds this week!” and “My New Years Resolution is paying off! Dropped a size already!”. And of course these jerks all get, like, 80 “Likes” and supportive comments. I just hate the fact that these people have only been eating healthy for two weeks and they already lost more than I did in my first full month on Weight Watchers. I’m jealous, okay? I’m totally jealous. I can’t help it.

 

What’s worse, though, is that one of my friends (okay, really one of my sister’s friends from high school who was always really nice to me so I accepted her friend request) just had bariatric surgery in December. She’s talked about it for months but I didn’t think she’d actually do it. In the first month, she lost 40 fucking pounds. FORTY POUNDS! That’s the exact amount I’ve struggled to shed since August. I’ve worked hard, watched (and tracked) every fucking thing that passed my lips, cut back on drinking, cut back on CHEESE (oh the horror!) and I lost in five months what she lost in one. 

 

As Sarah would say in The Labyrinth: IT’S NOT FAIR. 

 

No, it’s no fair. But I obviously don’t want to put my body through unnecessary surgery. And I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished, without surgery or pills or crazy cleanses. But still…damn. 

 

Honestly, it feels like she’s cheating. It feels like she’s cheating and barreling toward some invisible finish line, and I’m slowly trudging along at a fraction of her pace because I’m playing by the rules (whatever “the rules” are). 

 

It’s totally wrong of me to feel that way. A doctor would not have cleared her for surgery if she didn’t need it. Her insurance or parents wouldn’t have paid for it if she didn’t need it. And I don’t know her life. It’s not my place to judge these people. 

 

But where’s my magic button? 

 

Her first week after the surgery, she had lost 12 pounds. Do you know how long it took me to lose 12 pounds? And she had to do NOTHING except let a doctor cut into her and magically make her skinnier. All of the Facebook comments are like "Way to go! Keep up the good work!" and "We're so proud of you!" Seriously? Proud that she had surgery? Keep up the good work...like doing nothing? Nothing at all? Just eating and magically losing weight? That just seems shitty to me. Again, it's not my place to judge AT ALL...but I can't help it. I'm also really jealous that she's full all the time...I would give anything to feel full all the time. I love feeling full. Now, I feel half starved all the time. Not actually hungry, but not stuffed either. I would love to eat a crouton and feel like I ate a loaf of bread. But I'm doing it the hard way instead.

 

The grimmest thought is that my journey is only going to get harder the further I go. Each pound I lose, I know I’m getting closer to a dreaded plateau, or closer to that invisible line where losing weight takes much, much more effort. That’s a scary thought. Especially when I’m watching all of these other people dropping weight so effortlessly. 

 

It just…it just sucks. 

 

Anyway, I finally brought myself to take some actual measurements in hopes that I’ll see some progress even when the scale gives me bad news. And I'm staying away from Facebook for as long as I can, because that shit can get some serious jealousy stirred up inside of me. I can't imagine going through high school with something like Facebook...I don't know how girls today do it. I want to blow my brains out after reading a few hours' worth of posts, and I'm freakin' 30 with a good job and a great girlfriend. High-school-me probably would have slit her wrists if faced with obnoxious, bragging posts day in and day out. Blah. 

 

Rant over.

 

Now here are my terrifying measurements:

 

Neck: 15"

Bust: 49.5"

Chest: 44"

Waist: 43"

Hips: 52"

Thighs: right 29.5", left 29"

Calves: right 20", left 21"

Ankles: right 11", left 11"

Upper arms: right 15", left 15"

Forearms: right 10.5", left 11"

Wrists: right 7", left 7"

 

There. My soul is totally bared. You know I'm enormous, and that I'm also a Mean Girl. I'm trying to change both, I swear.

 

The Incredible Shrinking Woman

I'm flying pretty high this weekend!

Yesterday, Friday, I got my latest shipment from Macy's. I am 100% obsessed with Macy's clearance online--half of my clothes come from there. I sort by price, lowest to highest, and get so many incredible and cheap finds (and so many compliments!). I normally wear a 3x in just about anything from Macy's. The clothes run a little more snug than, say, Old Navy (where I almost always get a 2x). But when I was placing my last order, I decided to throw caution to the wind and ordered everything in a 2x.

It ALL fit!

I got a new charcoal gray jacket, a ruched black top, a cream and lace short skirt, an olive sweater dress, and a black cardigan. I cannot believe that everything fit perfectly! The jacket look awesome, and it's so much more flattering than the bulky down coat I've been wearing.

And the kicker? The skirt is NOT elastic waist! I would not have risked ordering it if I had known it was a zippered skirt. It has a little give on the sides, but it's definitely not the fully elastic kind of skirt I'm used to. And it fit perfectly, without giving me any bulges! I can't wait to wear it.

Still excited from trying on yesterday's purchases, this morning I decided to try on a pair of snakeskin print jeggings I got in the fall. They had been on a really good sale (like $9 or something) so I had gotten them in a 2x, the only size they had, thinking they were more like stretch pants and I'd be able to squeeze into them. They're actually more like denim, so  they were too tight and I never ended up wearing them (but at that price, it wasn't worth taking them back). When I tried them on this morning, they looked awesome! With a long red tube top, a tight black v-neck sweater, and some studded black flats, I felt super cute!

I wrapped up in a black and white plaid cashmere scarf, let my dark purple hair down, slicked on some cherry red lip gloss, found some big black aviator sunglasses, and my girlfriend and I put the top down in her new convertible and cruised around for hours. Today it actually hit 60 degrees (in January...global warming?) so we really wanted to ride in her car with the top down for the first time, but I've been self-conscious about what people would say or think about us at red lights. You're so exposed in a convertible. But today, I felt so cute, I was in heaven riding around in the sunshine!

I love feeling cute again. It's been so long since I've been able to handle people looking at me. At 300 pounds, I felt like anyone who glanced my way was laughing at, judging, or disgusted by me. Now, at 260 pounds, I know I'm not small but I feel confident enough that I can think maybe, just maybe, they're thinking nothing more than 'man, it would be nice to be in a convertible today!'.

:)

What's Left

This cocoon of fat

I spun for many years

is finally breaking away.

The layers crafted from

food and sloth

are melting like Spring.

What’s left inside

is anyone’s guess.

No one remembers

the caterpillar that first

began weaving this shroud.

The cocoon has been me

for so long

it seems like forever.

I can only hope

there’s something left

when the cocoon is gone.


 

Happy 2013!

If my old non-working scale can be trusted (it cannot) I have gained at least five pounds since my pre-Christmas weigh in. I'm pretty nervous about my Wednesday Weight Watcher's meeting, but I'm ready to finally see what damage I've done. I haven't given in to temptation TOO much (not anything like past Christmas food festivals) but my "Healthy Habits" have fallen to the wayside. I'm leaning on packaged food, candy, and diet cola while eschewing the fruits, veggies, and water I had been so faithfully ingesting. I need to get back on track, but I don't think it'll be too difficult. It's not like I've totally gone off the rails. Some of the girls at my work have stopped tracking for the holidays altogether, but I very sensibly poured my champagne into measuring cups before drinking, and tracked everything that passed my lips, no matter how shameful (cheeseball, anyone?). I wish my new scale would get here, but maybe it's best if I don't know until my meeting.

I'm also nervous about the body tape measure that comes with the scale. I have never been into measuring my body parts, regardless of the number of diets I've tried and failed. I just hate seeing how long that measuring tape is pulled out. It's easier not knowing. Now, though, I'm really curious. Even though my crappy, broken scale is telling me I gained weight, I do feel smaller than I have for years. My girlfriend even commented on feeling the bones in my shoulders. My ankle boots go on comfortably, instead of having to be tugged up over my cankles. So even though the initial numbers might make me a little sick, it will be nice to see those digits shrink as the next weeks and months of 2013 pass by.

And in case anyone cares, I've settled on some resolutions for this upcoming year. I hate odd numbered years, but for some reason I seem to have more New Years Resolution success on odd years. I gave up meat on New Years Eve 2003, gave up cigarettes on New Years Eve 2011, and I haven't touched either since.

2013:

1. Get Healthier. Continuing to eat right, move more, pay more attention to what I put into my body, and treat my body with more respect.

2. Stay Busy. Keep the house clean, do the things I've been putting off, stop wasting time, and keep my body in motion.

3. Get Frisky. Make it a priority to keep my girlfriend satisfied, learn to let go of my body issues and allow myself to be intimate, and use my new energy and healthier body to keep our relationship passionate and playful.

It's worth a shot. I have a whole new year ahead of me--I'd love to be able to stick to these resolutions this time. I started Weight Watchers in August of 2012, and I lost nearly 40 pounds by the end of the year. If I stuck with that (rather ambitious) pace, I'd be able to lose 104 pounds by 2014. That would bring me down to close to 160 pounds. That's crazy to even think about! But at least for now, I'm taking things one day at a time. First I need to survive January 1st at home with lots of time on my hands to cook delicious food. Instead, I'll try to stick to Resolution #2 and keep busy with something besides eating. Then on Wednesday is my weigh-in, and hopefully my scale will come in the mail. And then, one baby step after another. In, of course, the right direction.

Happy New Year!

Picture Picture

Wednesday morning was the first time that I did a double-take when I passed the mirror. Despite the disappointment of finding out I gained weight at my meeting, I still feel like Wednesday was a success because I actually looked at myself and thought, "Dang! I look good!" I mean, I was shocked. I can't remember the last time I saw myself in a full length mirror and didn't immediately leap out of view. It was a weird feeling. I grabbed my phone and snapped a shot before heading in to work--where I was told by two people that I looked pretty. Who doesn't like to hear that they look pretty?! What a nice feeling.

Seeing the photo of myself was kind of a shocker. 30 pounds is a lot of weight. I really have lived in stretch pants and oversize shirts for years, so it's not like I've noticed my clothes fitting differently. I could probably pull my stretch pants over the couch and they'd fit. I haven't taken measurements (I just don't want to know how many inches it takes to get around my thighs) so my only real gauge so far has been the number on the scale.

When I was browsing through the Weight Watchers website earlier this week (during my Simply Filling debacle...I was looking for some inspiration to get me through) I began combing through the 100 pound lost stories. It's really nice to see so many people who have been where I am now, and who stuck with it and are enjoying life now 100 pounds lighter.

One of the women encouraged others to take photos along the way, as she regretted not documenting her own journey. I had been planning to eventually take a shot so I could see my progress but I hadn't actually taken one yet. Well, after snapping the picture in the mirror Wednesday, I was halfway to a progress shot. I just needed to find a good (and by good I mean terrible) "before" photo.

Finding a full body photo proved to be a lot harder than I thought--not because I photograph well (I don't.) but because I erase every. single. picture. that shows my full body. I hate looking at myself, and I don't think I've ever seen a full body photo and not gasped and grimaced and said "Ohmygod--doIreallylooklikethat?!"

I found two singular pictures from this year that had escaped deletion--I had to crop Theodore Roosevelt out of the first one (statue in Puerto Rico) and Willie Nelson out of the second (wax museum in Canada). I'm lucky I found either one. The first is from five months before I started Weight Watchers, when I weighed probably around 305 pounds (I started Weight Watchers at 304 pounds on August 8, but I hadn't been on a scale for so long I have no idea how heavy I was in March). The second was taken two weeks after starting Weight Watcher--I hit 298 pounds that week. The most recent photo, the one taken Wednesday, is possibly the first full body photo I've taken on purpose. And I kind of like it.

My Progress:

So, well, it looks like the effort is paying off. Even with a slight gain this week, I can't deny that my body is changing. My stomach is flatter, my waist is smaller, and I feel...almost hot again. It's a damn good feeling.

Weight Watchers at Work

Still struggling through my final Simply Filling day. Still starving. 

 

One of my coworkers is also doing Simply Filling and I tried asking her how she’s been able to handle it. It turns out that she just doesn’t track anything—she estimates and tries to only eat Power Foods. Well, if I tried to estimate my Points without tracking and measuring, I could easily eat enough for a football team and still pretend like I had 49 Points left for the week. Not that she's cheating herself--I just know myself enough to know that I would absolutely, positively cheat. I'm in no way responsible enough to eat right now without measuring, tracking, and monitoring. I can't be trusted. My brain is too absorbed with food. Which is probably why she is happily chewing a caramel while I’m choking down my burnt 94% fat free popcorn and trying in vain not to think about cheese. 

 

At midnight tonight, I’m officially done with Simply Filling and back to my normal Weight Watchers. Thank goodness! A few more days like this and I would have stabbed someone. 

 

It’s really nice having my coworkers in Weight Watchers with me for the added support, but there are also a few extra challenges. For starters, none of them were really that big to begin with. These are girls who weigh 170 and who are trying to get to 150. I started at 304 pounds and I could still accidentally kill them if I sat on them. They actually joined Weight Watchers before me this time—it’s offered free at work, and we have other incentives (like gift cards) for participating. When they started losing weight after a few weeks, I joined and I haven’t looked back. I love having them here with great healthy snack ideas, Points-friendly contributions for pitch-ins, and for the little extra bit of shame I feel eating bad food in front of them. But, like my girlfriend, they don’t really get it. They’re not fat. They’ve never been fat. They’re fit and getting fitter…I’m fat and getting…well, somewhere. Maybe a little fitter? Sometimes I wish I was in meetings full of people my size, people who know what it’s like to endure the faces of other passengers on planes and busses when you can see them praying you don’t sit down beside them. People who know how it feels to sit through an entire meeting poised uncomfortably on the edge of a chair because you don’t know if it’ll hold you up when you put your whole weight on it. People who have walked into a store and not been able to fit into anything. People who know what it means to have SOCKS that are too tight. Who haven't been able to zipline because no ziplines are safe past 300 pounds. Who love to canoe but can't because the canoe will sit on the rocks. Who pick out glasses based on how much face fat bulges along the sides. Who can only fit one butt cheek into a folding chair at a concert. Who panic when sitting on the floor because there’s not a wall or table nearby to pull themselves up. Who have given up on belts. Who can’t wear jeans. Who cut tags out of shirts so no one will see the size. People like me.


I have a single pair of jeans, and they’re size 26. I haven’t even tried them on in months (although, after losing 30 pounds, they might be more comfortable). When I bought them, I was so ashamed of the size that I was gripped with terror at the thought of my girlfriend seeing the tag. I tore the paper tag up and soaked it in water until it dissolved and I could wash it down the drain. I cut out the fabric tag and snipped it into microscopic pieces, which I then folded into tissue paper, piece by piece, and flushed down the toilet, one at a time. And those were stretchy jeans! When I tried to find some denim shorts for a costume earlier this year, I had gone to the thrift store to find some men’s pants to cut up. I finally found the biggest pants there (size 50 in men’s) and brought them home. I haven’t put on anything that doesn’t stretch in years, so I was completely unprepared for that horrible feeling of pulling up the jeans and not being able to fasten them. Size 50 jeans and I couldn’t wear them. I ended up wearing a dress instead (as usual) and was depressed for weeks. The girls at work could use those pants as a tent, and I couldn’t even stuff my stomach into them. Ugh. 

So when they celebrate milestones like 10% weight loss, it’s after losing 15 pounds…not 30. I’m happy for their support and I’m glad they’re eating right, but I do wish there were more people like me around. Oh well…if I keep working hard at losing weight and working the Plan, hopefully I’ll be like them soon instead!