Rolling In The Deep

I'm now a little more than two years out from my surgery, and my weight has settled around 164. No longer obese!!

It has been really, really getting used to being a "normal" size. To not ease slowly into every chair lest it breaks; eyeing narrow retail stores to see what I'm in danger of knocking over; walking down the street and noticing people staring at me without wondering if they're secretly weighing me in their minds.

I'm even wearing crop tops!

I recently started a new job and, lemme tell you, it is AWESOME not being the fattest person in the building. To walk up the stairs to my office without having to hide for 20 minutes while I catch my breath. To step on the elevator and not have people directly check the weight capacity and do mental arithmetic to see if I'll cause us all to plummet. I've even noticed people speaking to me more as a peer, as though they assume I know what i'm doing and am capable of understanding.

It's pathetic that it took losing almost 200 pounds to realize people didn't take me as seriously when I was fat. Iw was more than capable at my job, but I got the sense that my shallow colleagues assumed that not having my weight under control meant I didn't have anything else under control.

Since losing weight, I did deal with serious depression and ended up committed after a suicide attempt. Then my house burned down. I took two years to find a job. I got very badly addicted after so many pain pills following so many surgeries. I was robbed three times, losing literally everything I own.

But.. I've never been happier. I've found the love of my life, I have a great job now, my house is being rebuilt, and I'm a healthy weight for the first time ever.

I recently got a new tattoo, and the message means a lot to me. It's from the Lord of the Rings: "It's only a passing thing, this shadow. " How right you are, Samwise.

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.

When I Was Crazy

Well, kids, I finally did it.

I lost my fucking mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wow.

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

Double wow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pureed Food Heaven

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

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

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

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

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

Drinking the Kool-Aid

I'm starting to feel like I understand why people enjoy working out, and it's kinda freaking me out. I thought it was seriously so fucking stupid when people would talk about how they love running, or how they miss it if they skip their workouts. I would roll my eyes when people would gush about the adrenaline rush of a good sweat, and felt real pity at the thought of these poor schmucks wasting their time at the gym. It seemed like telling people you like working out is the equivalent of saying you just can't stop getting an A+ on every test even though you never study. Like, shut up, fuck you, no one wants to hear about how perfect you are, jackass.

But...like...god this sounds so lame but I am LOVING walking or hiking every day! I'm logging more Activity Points in a day now than I was in entire week a year ago! I feel awesome when I'm sweaty and sore and tired but still pushing myself up stairs or over a hill!

In other words, I totally drank the exercise Kool-Aid.

To be clear, I was doing just fine losing weight on Weight Watchers without working out. In fact, I lost pretty much all of the weight I've lost (around 85 of the 95 pounds total) without working out AT ALL...literally barely moving. Go read my old blog posts, I was seriously a sloth. I've only lost around 10 pounds in the past 6 months--the time since my heart surgery, which is consequently the only time I've had the ability to be physically active. But even though I've only lost 10 pounds, I feel completely incredible. I'm walking faster, harder, stronger, longer. I'm dragging my girlfriend on several mile long hikes almost every night. I'm finding new ways to be active. I'm starting to plan our hikes the day in advance so I have something to look forward to.

I mean, instead of ordering pizza and watching a movie on Friday night, we go hiking and then go wander around outdoor art installations. On normally boring weeknights, we decide to meet after work for a long walk through town to go eat, then walk back to burn off our meals. For Mother's Day, we had a super healthy picnic and then took my girlfriend's family on a 3 mile hike around the art center. I NEVER would have agreed to that before, and I certainly wouldn't have suggested it! Yesterday, I joined the Garden Club at work and spent 2 hours literally shoveling shit, and instead of being miserable I just kept thinking about what an awesome workout it was. Today I'm so stiff and sore but instead of being annoyed, I'm proud and happy about it.

Living an active life is still pretty weird. I feel restless when I go a day or two without walking, and I'm even starting to get impatient with how slowly everyone else walks. Every now and then I get a burst of energy and feel like making a mad dash down the trail. Sometimes I actually do it.

I didn't think this would ever happen to me, but the more in shape I get, the more I want to get in shape.

It's honestly pretty awesome. Plus, it's earning me extra Activity Points so I can eat more, which is extra awesome. I hope I can sustain this level of activity...but I don't think that will really be a problem. My biggest real concern right now is whether or not my girlfriend will be able to keep up with me :)

Under 250 Pounds...FINALLY!

 

I did it! I am under 250 pounds for the first time in around five years!

This is the best birthday present EVER!!!

I actually took today off for my birthday, but I had my girlfriend bring me to work briefly so I could weigh in at Weight Watchers. I knew I had lost this week (according to my lovely new scale, at least) but I wanted a concrete number before I went out for lunch. I needed to decide if I should have a margarita...well, I'm glad I went because I ordered a large margarita and didn't feel bad about it at all :)

I was down 3.2 for the week, for a grand total of 54.8 pounds lost. That brings me down to 249.2 (from my starting weight of 304 on August 8th, 2012).

I was afraid I would never be under 250 pounds again. For so long, I just assumed that I would always be over the maximum weight limit for everything--lawn chairs, step ladders, inflatable rafts, hammock chairs, ziplines. Now I can officially zipline! I can sit in a lawn chair without feeling like it's going to immediately crumble under my weight! This is AWESOME!

Since my Weight Watcher's goal weight was set at 250, it was time for me to pick a new goal. I thought about 243 because that will be a loss of 20% from my starting weight, but I want to be a little more ambitious (without going too wild!). I set it at 225 pounds. That doesn't feel so far away right now, which is why I think it's a good goal, but it's also a LOT mentally.

I haven't been 225 pounds since the summer I graduated high school. I was at 230 pounds at graduation, started the Atkins diet while I was killing time before college, and I got down to just over 210 pounds. Then college started and, well, the Freshman Fifteen hit me hard. I fluctuated between 220 and 240 for years. If I can get under 225 again, I feel like I can go all the way :)

Oh, and today I saw the girl who inspired me to start Weight Watchers--she hit 125 pounds lost! Hey, I'm almost halfway there!

Here Comes Trouble

I did it. I bought a scale.

I feel like I could be opening Pandora's Box.

It turns out that my fears about normal scales not being able to weigh me were unjustified. Maybe the cheapest analog scales I was looking at when I bought my last scale (which was at Walmart probably ten years ago) didn't go over 250 pounds, but apparently standard digital scales (which were probably out of my $10-$15 budget at the time) go up to 400 pounds. I ordered one on Amazon and it should be here next Wednesday, which also happens to be my next Weight Watchers meeting--this is fortunate because I'll be able to see precisely how different the two scales register.

I tend to be a little obsessive about certain things, and I find it very easy to become obsessive about my weight. When I start a new diet or workout plan, I tend to overdo it and this usually causes me to end it just as quickly as I began. As one of my favorite poets, Edna St. Vincent Millay, wrote, "My candle burns at both ends; it will not last the night; but ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--it gives a lovely light!" After a lifetime of being a Fat Girl, I know all of the rules. Only weigh yourself once a day or once a week and always at the same time; don't eat after 6pm; your plate should consist of mostly vegetables; you need to drink at least eight cups of water a day; etc etc etc ad infinitum. But knowing and doing are two different things, and I always slip into the habit of skipping meals, weighing myself twenty times a day, enjoying the feeling of hunger a little too much, and generally replacing unhealthy habits with different, equally unhealthy habits.

So having a nice scale in the house is going to come with its own set of challenges. Besides my own tendency toward obsessiveness, I'm also anxious about my girlfriend weighing herself and seeing results. I don't want to hear how much she's lost. And I don't want her to become so enamored with losing weight that she begins actively trying--she's losing enough just by eating the healthier suppers I've been making. I know I've already talked about my own issues with her losing weight, and I'm trying to just not think about it and focus on myself, but I can't help it.

Having a scale WILL help me see when I've started to veer off course after a bingeful weekend, and it'll help me get through times like this week when my meeting was cancelled. Not knowing where I stand the week after Christmas is stressing me out, and I won't know exactly what I weigh as I ring in the New Year and make my resolutions. But the shiny new scale should be here on Wednesday, so I have a whole year of healthy living and body changes to look forward to :)

Oh, and the scale comes with a body tape measure...not sure how I feel about that...but I know I better save enough Points for a shot or two of whiskey after I measure myself for the first time!

Double Booked

I just checked my calendar for tomorrow and realized I'm not going to make it to my Weight Watchers meeting. Boo! I may have to sneak out of my other meeting to weight in. As for getting my Simply Filling questions answered, I think I'll dig through some member posts. I hate reading through posts. Seriously, I can start out looking for one topic and then it's like the Wikipedia Syndrome: see another interesting link/topic/whatever and then get sucked into the abyss for an hour. Same with YouTube. I started watching one video while I was home sick yesterday, and ended up two hours later watching Russian newscast outtakes (no, I don't speak Russian).

I really want to weigh in tomorrow so I'll have a more accurate assessment of what the steroids are doing to me (besides supposedly helping with my bronchitis). Our bathroom scale is, like, 15 pounds off. After my Wednesday meetings I usually come home and try to recalibrate it so it at least shows close to what I had weighed that day...but I don't think it works. Right now, the 'zero' is at 12 pounds. Stupid. And I have no idea if the doctor's scale yesterday was off or not. I've never gone to a meeting other than my Weight Watchers At Work meetings, so I'd feel super awkward going to a different place.

Looks like I'll have to wait until next Wednesday to see my 'roid damage!

 

I know I should just invest in a new scale but a) I don't want to get into the habit of compulsively checking my weight five times a day, which I know would happen because it's happened before, and b) I'd like to be able to walk in to the store and buy whatever scale I want, but many of them only go up to 250 pounds. That still feels really far away (okay, it IS still really far away), and I don't want to explain to my girlfriend that I can't get a certain scale because it can't accommodate someone my size. I like to believe she has no idea I'm over 250 pounds, let alone was so recently over 300 pounds. Is that something other people can tell? I'm terrible at guessing other people's weight, and terrible at comparing my body to others'. Now I just assume I'm about twice the size of everyone else in the room, which is probably pretty accurate.

It seems funny that I'm so bad at visually weighing people, or comparing their bodies to mine, when I've been doing it for so long. I distinctly remember standing in line in the hallway as a kindergartner, and watching a chubby first grader at the drinking fountain. I was trying to figure out if I was as big as her, or how much bigger she was than me, and if other people saw me the same way that I saw her. Do all kids think about that shit? That's terrible. Geez. Or do just girls think about it? Maybe just girls with younger, thinner sisters. First born girls with a competitive zeal and major insecurities. Maybe just me? I hate to think of kindergartners today sizing themselves up...but I imagine that a lot has changed in the quarter of a century since I was a kindergartner, and I bet it's even worse now. Man, that's a depressing thought.

Almost as depressing as being sick for a full week, and realizing I'm possibly going to miss my weigh in tomorrow! Oh well...I had an awesome dinner of low-fat homemade tiropita, Greek potatoes, and some mini apple pies for dessert (just a single sheet of phyllo dough, which I'd counted with my tiropita, cut into tiny squares, tucked into mini muffin tins, filled with applesauce, topped with stevia and cinnamon, spritzed with spray butter, and baked...SO GOOD). And I finally have some good cough suppressant. Time to watch Miracle on 34th Street and get excited to start my Simply Filling week tomorrow!