Taken a Turn

Yooooooo. It's been awhile.

LOTS has changed.

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

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

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

I was wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I am still hungry.

Some things never change.

My Grandfather Hates Fat People

We buried my grandfather today. He was 87.

I love that man so much.

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

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

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

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

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

But Papaw did NOT like fat people.

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

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

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

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

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

Fat and Depressed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dar Williams, After All

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

Fuck Christmas, And Fuck Duck Dynasty

On Weight Watchers, you're allowed 49 weekly Points to use at your discretion so you can supplement your daily Points allowance. This week, I not only blew through those 49 Points before the week was half over--I also went over those Points by 84 Points.

EIGHTY FOUR POINTS.

84.

Fuck.

I get 33 Points per day. (33x7)+49+84= 364. So I've had 364 Points this week.

That's the same as 91 Cadbury Cream Eggs. Or 5.7 gallons of marinara sauce. Or over 7 and a half pounds of grated cheddar.

Gross.

I blame Christmas. I mean, okay, I truthfully blame myself and my weakness and my emotional overeating and my utter lack of willpower. But I do blame Christmas too. Why does it have to be so delicious? Why does everything have to look so tempting and be so easy to grab? And why do I have to put up with my family, mostly my father, while still struggling to push aside all of the hurt feelings and shitty self esteem they left me with after high school?

This Duck Dynasty business has left me feeling really sad because my dad, who claims to love me and who seems to also really love my girlfriend of eight years, is so vigorously opposed to A&E firing the dude. I've written here and there about what a dick my dad is, so my dad supporting a bigot and failing to consider my feelings is definitely not shocking. But it is sad. It hurts when I see friends on Facebook posting pictures rallying against A&E's awesome decision to fire Phil, and it hurts even more to hear my dad saying shit like, "This is great because the pendulum will start to swing the other way now. The right people are going to start taking back the country, and Obama will go back to the ghetto where he belongs." My dad's total ignorance of government and morality aside, it just feels so wrong to have a father essentially telling his daughter, "Hey, I'm so glad that we're going to continue to deny you equal rights, and hopefully we'll be able to take away your rights completely! Oh yeah, and you're definitely going to hell! Sorry-not-sorry!"

My dad isn't even religious. I've read more of the bible than him. He went to Catholic school so he pretty much just hates God now, and he's never ever expressed any concern about my soul. So why does he care if my girlfriend and I get married? Seriously, my parents like her more than they like me. Why would he want us kept apart? And why does he care so much if some semi-scripted 'reality' tv star lost his job after making totally asinine and cruel and ignorant and intolerant statements to fucking GQ? Really? Why?

 

But talking to him is pointless. I can't even begin the debate because as soon as he starts in, I already feel defeated and close to tears. I start thinking about how many times I thought about killing myself. How many times I came close. He doesn't know about any of it. I think about how truly surprised I was to find I had made it out of high school without slitting my wrists. I think about sitting in my bathroom with the cold blade of my favorite scissors pressed against my vein, debating with myself if my parents would be more disappointed in me for being a lesbian or for committing suicide. I think about the fear and shame I felt before I came out, and the fear I still feel sometimes just holding my girlfriend's hand in the 'wrong' environments. I think about the confusion I felt when I first realized that I liked girls and the terror I felt knowing it was 'wrong' to feel that way.

I think about these things and I can't have a rational conversation with him because it's not rational at all. People are making remarks, right or wrong, that are making young people want to kill themselves rather than live in a world that hates them. Why is that okay? Why wouldn't any rational person want to stop those words from being broadcast to young people who are still trying to understand their sexuality?

So on top of the normal stressful family Christmas, I also got to shield myself all day from Duck Dynasty conversations. Instead, I steered myself to the dessert table to ate until all I could think about was how full my stomach was. I tracked everything I ate, but I didn't even try to moderate myself. I was in a FUCKITALL mood and just didn't care. Now, of course, I'm still stressed and I'm feeling even more anxious about having Christmas dinner tomorrow with my dad and my great uncle who is even more of a bigot than my dad. But on top of all that, I'm also just sick with regret at how much I ate, and disappointment in myself.

Still, even though I want to say Fuck Christmas, I don't really mean it. I love Christmas, I love my dad (way deep down where it's hard to see sometimes), and I'm proud of myself for how far I've come. As long as I get over this pity party and make it through the next 24 hours, I can regroup, lose the Christmas fat, and put all of this behind me.

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.

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.

Gross Fat Girl Stuff

Time to talk about some gross stuff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The 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.

To Vegan Or Not To Vegan

I've been struggling with a bit of a moral dilemma for a few days, I'm not really not sure what to do.

Bear with me as I try to sort myself out.

I've been a vegetarian for more than a decade now. I gave it up for New Year's one year, so I started January 1, 2003. Never once have I looked back. Sure, I get cravings every now and then for certain things, like popcorn shrimp or bacon (BACON!!!!!!). But I'm usually able to talk myself down from those cravings by either grossing myself out (shrimp=fish=nastyfishysmells, etc) or making a vegetarian alternative (my version of tofu bacon=amazingly delicious!).

One thing I haven't been able to live without is cheese. I LOVE cheese. I've already waxed poetic about my love affair with cheese (and the complete meltdown--shame on my pun--I had when I tried eating fat free cheese for a week.

I was actually a vegan for the first three months after I stopped eating meat, but I survived mostly on beer and sunflower seeds. Not exactly sustainable. I caved, devoured some nachos, and I've been chowing down on cheese ever since then.

It took longer to work milk and eggs back into my diet, and I still wouldn't reach for a glass of milk or a plate of scrambled eggs if there was something more delicious in front of me, but I definitely haven't held back from the milk and eggs. They're on our grocery list every week. I don't think twice before whipping up a quiche, fried egg sandwiches, hard boiled eggs, egg salad, etc. I'm the designated deviled egg maker for both my family and my girlfriend's family, so it's not uncommon for us to get three 18-packs of eggs around Easter and Thanksgiving.

My mornings aren't complete without some light yogurt, too. And I have Smart Ones ice cream pretty much every night. Whipped cream is one of my favorite desserts. I can rarely pass up FroYo in any form.

Which brings me to my struggle: I feel REALLY bad about still eating eggs and dairy. I ignored it for a long time (like, 9 years long...) but then I made the awful mistake of watching Vegucated on Netflix.

Oh. My. God.

I am no stranger to PETA, and I've seen some of the most disturbing animal videos out there. But in Vegucated, when they show the baby chicks being ground up alive...I cant. I mean, I seriously can't. I can't even go there.

So I did the best thing I could--I started researching. I already have a weekly food delivery service, and they offer dairy and eggs that are organic, free range, local, etc. Everything I thought I wanted...until my research commenced. I contacted the dairy farms and the egg producers available through the service, and asked what I thought were pretty simple questions. I mean, these aren't factory farms. I know what goes on there, and I want no part of it. I was trying to talk to the "good guys," relatively speaking.

I asked the dairy farms:

1) I realize this is a dairy farm--what happens to the male calves after they're born, and how long are calves allowed to stay with their mothers after birth?

2) You say the cows are not fed antibiotics. What happens to them when they have an infection?

3) When a cow is eventually unable to produce milk, what happens to her?

The first farm responded:

1) Some of our male calves stay on the farm, to be used as breeding stock, and the rest are sold to other farms, for breeding or meat production. We have relationships with a number of farmers whom we work closely with to pass our calves on to, so we trust that they will be well-cared for.

2) If one of our animals gets an infection, we use natural supplement injections, like Vitamin C, echinacea, and garlic, or external salves to treat the infection. Typically this intervention is sufficient. In the rare case that a cow would need more medical help, we do use antibiotics, but then we sell the cow to another non-organic farm.

3) When our cows stop producing milk we typically use them for the 100% grassfed beef that we sell in our store and cook with in our restaurant.

So that didn't bother me too badly. I understood that this was supplier of meat and dairy, so I expected that they killed some of the cows. No shocker there.

The second farm responded:

1) The calves stay with their mother for about a week after they're born. Male calves are sent to auction.

2) The cows are not routinely given antibiotics, however, if they have an infection they are given antibiotics so that they can get well. Because their milk isn't included with the rest of the milk, they are removed from the milking herd, and milked separately until the infection clears up and the required withdrawal period has passed. The cow is then returned to be milked with the rest of the herd.

3) When a cow has reached an age when their milk production is finished, they go to auction.

Oooookay, well, I don't like the thought of the cows going to auction because I know where they end up. I know how traumatic it is for them to be shoved into a truck (I am definitely one of those people who cries on the highway every time I pass a livestock carrier) and then turned over to some butchers for a devastating death. But...it's a little easier to imagine them going off to a nice little auction, with an old timey caller and some little 4-H kids clutching their money and placing their bids. A total fantasy, I know, but it just seems like having the cow sent off to a euphemistic "auction," I would be oh-so-slightly less directly responsible for the cows dying every time I buy a bottle of milk.

The last dairy was actually a co-op--they responded:

Because organic farmers don’t use certain “tools” like antibiotics to treat illness or artificial growth hormones to increase milk production, animal comfort is the key to their success. Organic farmers must prevent illness and stress on their cows by providing for their nutritional, physical and even emotional well-being. On an organic farm, successfully meeting cows’ needs can mean the difference
between making a living and going out of business.

Cows must have access to the outdoors, sunlight, fresh air, and pasture to graze on fresh grasses. The amount of time depends on the time of year, the weather, the feeding program of the individual farmer and the regional location of the farm. Confinement operations are prohibited in the cooperative. Cows must have clean, dry bedding and cannot be forced to live on concrete. Living quarters must allow enough space for the cow to get up, lie down, groom and interact with other cows, and inhumane practices such as tail docking are not allowed.

Thanks also for your question about what happens to male calves when they are born. In general, dairy farmers would rather have a heifer calf than a bull calf so that they can grow their herd.

Farmers either raise the males as steers for the organic meat market or sell them to other organic farmers that specialize in beef. Like organic milk, organically raised beef also receives a higher price. And, of course, as long as people buy veal, some bull calves will be sent to veal operations. However, we want you to be assured that male calves from the farms in the co-op do not end up in confinement veal operations. There are specific animal care requirements within organic standards that prevent farmers from raising calves in confinement conditions, and because organically-raised calves are more valuable it would not make financial sense to sell a bull calf to a conventional veal operation.

OH HELL NO! They did not just try to justify veal to me! No. No way. Not interested in anything coming from them--the thought of veal makes my stomach churn. Ugh. Too bad, because the beginning of the email was going so well...happy cows, sunshine and emotional well-being...they just totally lost me with the veal.

So the first two dairy options aren't ideal, but they sound a lot better than the last farm. I was hoping to have more luck with the egg farm. I researched their website and then asked:

1) You mention that the hens "arrive" at the farm. From where do your hens originate, and how are they transported?

2) I realize this is also a meat farm, so the female chicks are likely raised for meat. But what happens to the male chicks?
3) You say the hens are not fed antibiotics. What happens to the hens when they have an infection?

Their response:

Thanks for getting in touch. We appreciate your interest in learning more about your food source.

1) Usually the laying hens arrive to us as day old chicks from a hatchery. They are transported through the USPS.

2) The baby chicks come pre-sexed so we receive 95+ percent females. We keep the few males we receive as roosters for the flock. The said truth is that chickens are bred by hatcheries to either be efficient layers or efficient meat birds then the opposite sex is simply disposed of. The only solution is to breed for dual purpose chicken breeds so that females can be used for eggs and males for meat. However, this equates for less efficient production and will mean much higher production cost for both eggs and meat. Unless consumers are willing to pay $6 to $7 per dozen for eggs and $10-$12 per pound of chicken then I cannot raise and sell a dual purpose breed. Would you be willing to pay this much for your eggs and chicken?

3) Chickens with sickness or infection generally is not a problem because of how we raise them. We simply never administer a drug or antibiotic to them.

I gave you an honest answer to your 2nd question. I'd love to get your thoughts as this is a conundrum in our modern food and agriculture system that both consumers and farmers simply want to avoid discussing.

OH JESUS WHAT HAVE I DONE?!?! The day old chicks are SHIPPED IN THE MAIL?!?!?! And the "opposite sex" chicks are "SIMPLY DISPOSED OF"?!?!?! WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN?!?!?!?!?!?!? (This is another instance where the use of an interrobang would be immensely helpful.)

FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. I can never eat eggs again. Of course, I happened to read this email on my phone while I was getting ready to go into work, so I ended up walking into the office a sobbing, mascara-streaked mess.

DISPOSED OF?!?!

I was so totally sickened.

Listen, I know not everyone is a sappy animal lover. I know for some people, ignorance truly is bliss and they honestly don't want to think about where their meat comes from. But I thought I was doing a GOOD thing by not eating meat! I thought that a decade of vegetarianism was wracking me up good karma points, and I thought that having eggs for breakfast instead of sausage was actually saving animals' lives. I had NO IDEA that my eggs were killing other baby chicks. I thought that, since the eggs were unfertilized and since hens lay eggs all the time anyway, it was like...well...like sperm or something. No harm, no foul. Nothing sacrificed.

I had no clue that every male chick was DISPOSED OF. I feel deceived. I know it's my own fault--I didn't ask the right questions before. The answers were right there, I just needed to ask and I didn't. I lived in quiet stupid complacency and, because of me, little fluffy baby chicks were being ground up like they were nothing at all.

Once I stopped crying long enough to see my screen, I was finally able to answer the question posed in the egg farmer's email. I wrote:

 

Thank you so much for your honest and informative reply. To answer your question, yes, I would be willing to pay $7 (or more) for a dozen eggs if I knew there were no ethical concerns with the eggs or the chicks--but I certainly realize I'm not the average consumer. I've been a vegetarian for more than a decade, and I've been struggling to continue to justify my egg and dairy consumption. The reason I reached out to you and several other farms was because I was hoping to find a local supplier that would allow me to continue eating eggs without sacrificing my passion for the ethical treatment of animals. Unfortunately, I don't think this is possible--eggs are an industry, industries exist to earn money, and, as you said, having dual purpose breeds just doesn't earn enough money.

I would love to have the option of purchasing completely ethical eggs, regardless of the cost. I would be happy to pay $1 to $2 per individual egg just to have a quiche once a week. Again, I realize I'm not the average consumer. I think you'd be surprised to find how many others share my values, however, and I hope that you will take this into consideration.

Thanks again for your honest answers. Farms like yours are a far cry from industrial farms, and I do applaud your efforts. If you have any other thoughts or questions for me, I'd love to hear them.

I haven't heard back.

 

I did find someone just a few streets over who raises chickens in her backyard and sells their eggs. She feeds them organic feed and table scraps, treats them like pets, and doesn't kill any baby chicks. Once I can stomach eggs again, I'll probably go over and pick some up.

 

But my dilemma is this: is it really worth it? Is it really worth the pain I'm causing, just to chow down on eggs and cheese and FroYo? I've really tried to be kind to animals and live my life ethically, so it only makes sense to give up animal products altogether--however, I think giving up cheese is just going to drive me to other unhealthy foods to fill the void. I seriously love cheese. And the three months I was vegan were horrible for me. I have to force myself to eat vegetables, so I basically always hated everything I ate. I don't want to turn to that awful vegan cheese or processed soy hotdogs. I want to continue to have my yogurt and Smart Ones and whipped cream and the occasional egg salad sandwich, but I don't want to cause animals to suffer because of it.

 

I just don't know what to do.

 

I've managed to lose over 50 pounds on Weight Watchers now, and the only week I considered giving up was the one week I was on the Simply Filling plan--that's because I ate only fat free cheese, and it was fucking disgusting. I don't want to give up cheddar. I don't want to cause suffering, but I also don't want to suffer myself. I don't want to sabotage my weight loss efforts by forcing myself into an overly restrictive vegan diet, but I can't crack an egg right now without seeing those little chicks being ground up alive.

 

So what the fuck do I do?

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.

Family Genes

I keep meaning to write about my grandma, but I keep managing to avoid it anyway. It's embarrassing and painful and sad to think about. But here goes.

 

My grandma is awesome. Really, both of my grandmothers were awesome, but only one is still alive. I lost my wonderful paternal grandmother my freshman year of college. (Incidentally, it happened on the same day that my dad disowned me, slammed my head against a metal rod and tried to choke me out, and then told me he never wanted to see me again. They didn't tell me she was dying until it was too late to make it to the hospital. That's just another thing I don't know if I'll forgive my father for. More on this another day.) My maternal grandmother, Meme, has always doted after me, though. She sees me as a younger version of herself, and I can see it too. The way she shows love, though, is with food. ALWAYS with food.

She has always taken great pains to make my favorite cakes and dishes for Thanksgiving, Easter, and Christmas. She makes me a personal pan of stuffing without chicken broth, even though she claims she'll never understand why I'm a vegetarian. Whenever we were celebrating anything growing up, she and Papaw would take us to Red Lobster or somewhere similar. For birthdays and anniversaries, they like to buy or make thick fudgey brownies and mound ice cream, whipped cream, and chocolate on top. When I spent a month at Ghost Ranch in New Mexico, Meme made me a big box of homemade fudge to share with my new friends--I was insanely popular that day, even though I ate much of the fudge myself. When I would spend the night with them as a child, they'd cook a big supper and then have popcorn with melted butter afterward, followed by ice cream. When I used to house-sit for them, they'd get me a pantry full of chips, Lucky Charms, Little Debbies, and cashews.

Since food is tied so closely to Meme's relationships with me and others, it's no wonder that she also has considerable issues with food.

I've seen pictures of her when she was younger, and she was slim and gorgeous. She looked like Liz Taylor--the resemblance is uncanny. She wore big black beehive wigs and tight bell-bottom pants. She put on weight slowly over the years, and by the time I was born, she was pretty heavy. Some of my earliest memories of her are of her talking about her latest diets. She did a green bean diet for awhile, where she ate green beans all the time. If she wasn't hungry enough to eat plain green beans, the diet reasoned, then she wasn't really hungry. Later, she tried the Sugarbuster diet. Atkins. South Beach. Still her weight continued to rise.

I could see why. You only have to watch her eat one meal to see that her portions are huge, everything's cooked Paula Deen style (she's from Arkansas so most of her meals aren't completed without cornbread slathered with butter, or at least deep fried and covered in salt), and she eats like she's in a trance without knowing what she's intaking. She loves buffets as much as I do, and she always has donuts or coffee cake or cookies on hand.

Even so, she was still pretty. Before she retired, she was stylish and active, even if she was big. But once she retired, it was like she made a nest in her armchair and never left. She stopped swimming and they closed their pool. She stopped going to Vegas for their every-few-months trips because she had trouble fitting in the airplane seats (gee, that sounds familiar). And slowly she began to do less and less.

Now, she has terrible back problems. That's what she says, anyway. I believe that she's in pain, but I think the problems are more weight-related than back-related. I know, I know: I hate physicians who assume every problem with an obese person is nothing more than their weight. But in Meme's case, I think she got so big that moving became a burden, so she stopped trying. I know how she feels, because I was very close to that myself.

My grandfather now has to push her around in a wheelchair everywhere she goes. All 460 or so pounds of her. She got an electric wheelchair, but she doesn't like that as much because she can't get close to her slot machines (they still drive to local casinos since she can't or won't fly to Vegas). She needs help getting to the bathroom and standing up from her chair. It's not old age--she's in her 60s. She just became immobile. She can't put on her own shoes and she hired a housekeeper to do the chores. Her hairdresser has to make house calls because she can't go to the salon. My grandpa is so afraid to leave her home alone and risk her falling that he has to call someone to stay with her if he wants to go to the store or run an errand.

When she was in the hospital last year, they didn't have a bed that could accommodate her. They actually had to call an outside company to deliver a heavy-duty bariatric hospital bed. When it got there, the auto-inflating mattress kept failing. They had the tech out twice and I could tell that he was doing everything he could to avoid telling her that she was too big for the bariatric bed. (That's why I know how much she weighs--they made me try to fix the bed and I saw the weight. For some reason they think that because I can program their cell phone, I should be able to figure out any type of technology. I wish.) They let her keep her own mumu on because the hospital gowns wouldn't fit her. They have to take her blood pressure around her wrist because the cuff won't go around her upper arm. She acts like none of it bothers her, but I can only imagine the embarrassment she must feel.

I never wanted their senior years to be like this. I dreamed of them retiring and having more time for the things they used to love doing--fishing, boating, camping, shopping. Now, they can't even go out to dinner because Meme thinks it's too much of a hassle and it puts too much of a strain on Papaw.

That makes me really sad.

The only good news is that I'm pushing myself in the opposite direction this time. I really was starting to pick up some of her habits--asking my girlfriend to get things for me, choosing to stay home instead of going through the trouble of going out and risking not fitting into a booth or being stared at in a crowd. I'm happy to think that my senior years will be spent doing what I want to do without being constrained by my size...but is it too late to help Meme? She's the most stubborn woman I've met, excluding myself.

I've done all I can, and I'm starting to give up hope that she'll ever take the initiative to get healthy again. I feel like she's resigned herself to living out her final years like the mom in What's Eating Gilbert Grape, and that makes me want to cry. I had almost resigned myself to the same fate...the only difference is that I feel like I still have time to turn my life around. I wish I could say the same for her.

Surving Christmas

This is a ROUGH time to watch your weight!

All week at work I've had to dodge platters of fudge, brownies, cupcakes, divinity, homemade marshmallows, Oreo truffles, cake balls, cookies, peanut brittle, gingerbread, chocolate dipped candy canes, caramels, muffins...not to mention all of the store bought candy! Tree-shaped Reese's, white chocolate Oreos, Snickers, Kit-Kats, Caramellos, Heath bars...there have been mugs and bags of candy left on my desk, bowls and plates full sitting around on filing cabinets and desks, tins and baskets on the counters in the office kitchen. It's worse than my parents' house (although mercifully not as wrought with emotional eating triggers as being at my parents').

I've been strong, and I've actually been proud of my resolve. I passed up the platters, I gave the bagged goodies to my girlfriend and asked her to hide them from me and eat them quickly, and I had her hide the candy and only give me pieces when I ask for them. Last year at Christmas, I ate like I would never get chocolate again. I stuffed my face all day, every day. I did not pass up a single cookie or cupcake. I had piles of empty wrappers around me at all times. I emptied bags of Lindt truffles and gorged on boxes of Ferrero Rocher and chocolate covered cherries. I tried the white chocolate Frosty, the Reindeer Tracks Blizzards, the eggnog milkshakes, the gingerbread cappachinos. I baked rolls of cookies and dipped everything in the house in chocolate (marshmallows, cashews, cookies, Ritz crackers with peppermint flavor--they taste like Thin Mints--, candy canes, cherries, graham crackers, pretzels, everything) and then I ate and ate and ate. I couldn't even begin to guess how much I ate last year at Christmas, or how much weight I gained as a result. I just didn't care. I gorged myself with everything I could get my hands on.

Gorged is a good word. When I think of gorging, I think of ticks. Have you ever seen a really, totally engorged tick? When I first found my old dog on the side of the road on spring many years ago, he had a broken leg and was covered in ticks. The Humane Society guessed he had been outside all winter because his coat was so matted and caked deep with mud. The broken leg and resulting infection were more than they could care for and they were going to put him down if I left him. So of course I kept him, snuck him into my house (I was in college and pets were strictly verboten in university housing), and gave him a bath (I was as scared as he was--here was a strange, wild Rottweiler mix that I was told had been beaten and had his leg broken by a human, not a car, and I had no idea how he would react). He let me wash him and when I was done, I began inspecting him and cleaning his wounds, and I found so many fleas and ticks in his thick fur. I knew the flea shampoo would help with those vermin, but the ticks would have to be pulled out by hand. I started pulling them out, one by one, and then found a dense cluster of them latched in one of his armpits (if you can call it that on a dog). 

While I was pulling out all of the outer ticks, this disgusting thing was slowly uncovered at the center of the cluster. It was a tick, but it was the size of my thumbnail and a sickly yellowish-orange. Once I had pulled away all of the others, I had to get that monster. It had been sucking this dog's blood for so long, it was engorged to the point of almost bursting. I was using tweezers to gently detach the ticks head-first so there wouldn't be anything left inside the dog's skin, but this tick was so huge I couldn't easily get to the head. I used my fingers to pull the tweezers apart and released them around the tick--but it was so full and fat that it was soft, and the tweezers sank in like it was a marshmallow. I finally pulled it out but it was so gross and pale and full of blood that I never forgot that sight.

I ended up rehabilitating the dog and he became the love of my life. I named him J (J. Edgar Hoover) and I spent all of my time with him. And on more than one occasion, the thought of leaving him with no one to care for him saved me from killing myself. Not to be too grim, but I have dealt with suicidal thoughts pretty much as long as I can remember. There were several times after college in the lonely years that come with graduating from school to living alone and drinking alone and living as a drunk, unhealthy slob with no direction, that looking into that dog's eyes was literally the only thing that kept me from slitting my wrists or swallowing the handful of pills. I saved him and he saved me. When he died two years ago, I thought I would die with him. And when Rob died last year, I felt lonelier than I ever have before and I considered killing myself with the very slim hope that I might see Rob and J again if I did. But I was in a better place, and I had a girlfriend who loves me and got me through, and now I'm committed to living a healthier life and giving myself a chance again. In the year after moving in with my girlfriend I had begun to eat healthier and work out, and J loved going on the trails with me as I walked and jogged along. Then I got sick, had my open heart surgery, and we stopped jogging or even walking together. I wish I had been more active with him in the years after my surgery and before he died. But now I have another dog--as very different as a dog can be from another--and I hope to give him the active time I took away from J.

But back to what I was saying. Last year, I gorged myself until I really felt like that nasty tick I pulled out of J. I could barely move and I knew every part of my body was swollen with fat. I'm determined to not let that happen this year, so I'm doing that I can to control my sweet tooth. Besides passing up the treats and having my girlfriend hide my candy, I also decided not to make sweets this year. I gave my employees little gift bags instead of the usual cookies and chocolate-covered-everything, and I invited my parents over here to visit instead of going over there to help them bake. I'm also proud of this little change: I had volunteered to contribute to a charity bake sale, but instead of baking human food, I made dog cookies. I've made them before and they're so easy--it's 2 cups of wheat flour, 1 tablespoon of baking powder, 1 cup of milk, 1 cup of peanut butter, 1 tablespoon of vanilla, and 1/4 cup of honey. I mix the dry ingredients, mix the wet ingredients, combine the two, and then knead. I rolled it out thin and used a small Christmas tree cookie cutter and baked them for 20 minutes at 375. They turned out beautifully, and I divided them into snack bags. I made little "Merry Christmas" tags with a label saying they were peanut butter cookies for dogs, and included "To" and "Love" with blank spaces so people could give them to their dogs as presents. Some curly ribbon tied to each bag made them really cute--and they were a huge hit! They made money for the charity, and they kept me away from temptation. Plus, my dog really enjoyed the cookies I made him out of the scraps :)

So I'm finding little ways to sidestep the Christmas treat landmines that are planted around my life. I'm still staying on Plan and finding ways to be more active, and I have to say that this year feels more like Christmas than last year did. It's really nice to enjoy Christmas, instead of watching it pass by the television screen while I gulp down food without thinking about it. I miss J, I miss Rob, and I do miss making plates of goodies for everyone--but I'm slowly learning to replace those gaps with healthy food, meaningful activities, and spending time with the people I love who are still with us. I don't want to be a tick this year. I want to be a Christmas elf, spreading cheer instead of sucking it all away. That was super cheesy. But the point is, I'm having a wonderful Christmas and I think I'm helping the people around me have a good Christmas too, even if I'm not handing them cookies.

I Work Out (No I Don't)

There's something I'd like to share: I am lazy.

Seriously, I'm super lazy. Always have been. When I was in third grade, I would sit down in the middle of the soccer field and search for four leaf clovers. When I was in softball through elementary and middle school, I was the catcher so I wouldn't have to walk anywhere (I was a terrible catcher. I don't know why they let me do it. I would squat there, chewing sunflower seeds, halfheartedly tossing the ball back to the pitcher. By the end of the inning, the pitcher was always worn out from retrieving my errant balls and my sweaty face mask would be dotted with sunflower shells. Oy.)

My favorite part about any of the sports my parents forced me into was always, ALWAYS the snacks. Little Debbies, fruit snacks, Hi-C, Squeeze-its...they totally made it worth suffering through one crappy game after another. The entire time I was shuffling up and down the basketball court or relaxing in the dugout, I was fantisizing about the candy the parents would pass out when we were done. Working out was awful, but the candy reward got me through.

As an adult, I am even lazier. I ask my girlfriend to get everything for me. I have to sit down if I walk more than half a block. At Disney World, I had to have the next bench or low wall in sight before I waddled any further. Last year, I had to leave a haunted house through the emergency exit, not because I was scared but because I was so out of breath I thought I was going to pass out. Between my non-functioning heart valve and the chronic lung problems that began when I got sick in 2007, I have a good excuse to be lazy, and I pull the "heart problem card" all the time. I have my employees pick up papers from the printer for me, I make excuses to get out of meetings on the third floor because I don't want to climb the stairs, and I have even put off going to the bathroom because I didn't want to walk that far.

Seriously. So lazy.

Yes, the sloth is my spirit animal.

So one of the things that makes me nervous about Weight Watchers is the activity portion. I know that one of the major components of staying on Plan is to add activity to my life, but I have avoided it at all costs. I feel like I can't work out. I self-diagnosed myself as exercise intolerant. It's just laziness, but I don't trust myself to do too much.

One major scare a few years ago, the year after my open heart surgery, really made me never want to work out or increase my heart rate again. I had taken a tour of Mammoth Cave and we were on our way out. The exit required a trek up exactly 440 stairs--before we even hit the stairs, I was already out of breath, heart racing, and the very last person in the group except for the guide who was turning off lights behind me. I started up the stairs and barely made it a quarter of the way before I stopped, my legs quivering, pouring sweat. I began having my first true asthma attack...and guess who hadn't brought an inhaler? The asthma attack was bad enough, but looking up the remaining stairs made me want to die. The group slowly disappeared out into the sunlight and I was left with my nervous girlfriend and a guide urging me on. I got up another quarter of the way and then stopped and truly started to freak out. There was no other way out but up, and those two were NOT going to be able to carry me. Sooo...my asthma attack turned into a panic attack, and I was then convinced I was having an actual heart attack. I was so scared.

I was crying by then, shaking, and absolutely humiliated. I eventually made it up the stairs, one at a time, and had to make the ultimate walk of shame to the bus where the entire tour group was staring at me. Of course, I had to shoehorn myself down the bus aisle and I knew my face was a gross combination of green, gray, white, and bright red. I can't think of a time I was more embarrassed. That experience left me terrified of having another episode like it, so from that moment on I avoided all physical activity at all costs, particularly activity where I knew I'd be stuck if I couldn't go on (like hiking, which I love). And the longer I avoided moving, the less I began to move. By the time I started Weight Watchers, I was coming home and sitting on the couch for an hour before cooking supper, and then sitting on the couch for several more hours while my girlfriend got me drinks, food, and whatever else I needed. I pretty much only stood up to go to work or use the bathroom.

I'm extremely happy to say that things are changing.

It started when I was on the steroids--I had insomnia for several days, and instead of watching the television all night, I started cleaning. I organized cabinets, folded laundry, collected items to donate, sorted through junk drawers, and did everything I'd been putting off for years. I figured it was only because of the steroids but...well...I haven't stopped. I'm sleeping normally again and I've been off the steroids for a week, but instead of coming home and turning on the television, I'm straighting up the house, playing with the dog, or finding something to tidy up or repair.

This weekend, we went to an outdoor Christmas event and I didn't sit down once. I wandered along the canal and went into stores, when just months before I would have preferred to sit on a bench while my girlfriend walked around. On Sunday, I suggested we go to a Christmas display at the art museum and I walked so quickly through the grounds that my girlfriend struggled to keep up. Tonight, I went downtown and actually walked three blocks to meet up with my family, and then walked around for a little while, and then walked back to my truck--I NEVER would have agreed to do that before! I guess it's true what the commercial says: a body in motion stays in motion (yes, I realize that's a law of physics and not just a commercial). I'm definitely in motion.

And possibly even cooler? I haven't used my inhaler for weeks. I usually take a daily inhaler and then carry another one for emergencies--I stopped using both. I carry them in case I need them, but I have been walking around like a normal, healthy person and I haven't used an inhaler! Do you know how huge that is for me?!

Even though I don't see myself ever joining a gym (just the thought makes me anxious) or jogging around outside, I don't think I need traditional exercise to move more. I AM moving more. I'm walking, I'm going to events, I'm doing more now than I ever thought I would again. I had almost resigned myself to a life like the mom in What's Eating Gilbert Grape (I do need to talk about my grandmother at some point...I love her so much but ending up like her is my worst nightmare) so it feels incredible to finally get out and enjoy life. By the spring, maybe I'll even feel confident enough in myself to go for a hike--that would make me so extremely happy. No matter what the scale says tomorrow at weigh in, I am proud of myself. I feel like I'm slowly reclaiming my life, and it's awesome.

Plus, it doesn't hurt that the house is finally clean!