Haven't posted since before the holidays. I've been going a little crazy with the lack of sleep due to working the night shift and transporting my husband to the second shift. I never feel like I get enough REM sleep.
Up until a week ago I was ecstatic. So positive, full of good vibrations: I was the warm, happy center of the universe. Then BOOM. And I go back to anxious, stressed out, tired, etc. Guess I was manic again. I never know I'm manic until either someone points it out, or I crash back into depression. While I don't think I'm nearly as low as I used to get, I'm definitely lower.
Thought I was going to menstruate like it eds a goddamn Christmas miracle. ALL the symptoms followed by spotting. Then... nothing. It was probably my body getting to ramp up to a period and failing miserably. Bit, of course, some foolish little optimistic part of me always interjects... and since it COULD have been implantation bleeding, I took a couple pregnancy tests which, of course, led to absolutely nothing with the first test and an annoying-as-fuck slight shadow on the second test, which I couldn't get to show up on camera, and now looks all nasty and yellow with a pink tinge because it's been a few days since I peed on it and my urine is dried. It's probably nothing as usual. I don't know why I continue to hope for something that is probably never going to happen. It's the very definition of madness, I suppose.
My best friend and his boyfriend came over tonight to hang out with the hubby while I am here at work. They kept complimenting me, saying how I look so good, etc etc and how I'm "getting skinny" and I just want to slap them. I know they're trying to be nice and encouraging to me, but I don't want lip service.
I've begun to wonder if I have body dysmorphia. It would be a mild case because I don't necessarily hide my perceived flaws, and jeez, how could I? I do still contemplate suicide regularly, but I think that's a coping mechanism for me. Like always knowing where the emergency exits on the airplane are... you know they'll not save you from certain death, but the illusion of safety itself is a comfort. At least, if all else fails, I know I have THAT control.
I think that's how I hit so fat: anxiety and perceived control. I couldn't change the bullshit in my life, but I could control my food intake. I binge ate. I can admit it now. It was pretty fucking awful. I can't believe how much food I used to put away. Even now, the potential is there. If I don't check myself, I just mow down everything as quickly as I can.
There's this character from a childhood cartoon that I think of as I write this. Heffer Wolfe from Rocko's Modern Life. There's this episode called "To Heck and Back" wherein Heffer chokes and goes to He(ll)(ck) and Peaches = The Devil makes him watch tv of his sin, gluttony. It showed him reading an entire cake, his grandfather's birthday cake, swallowing it whole, lit candles and all. Grandpa Wolfe is hitting Heffer on the head with his cane, crying "Did you even taste it?" Yeah, lately, I kind of feel like that's me. And that's sad.
I have a goal, though, because you can't live a life without one, especially when making a lifestyle change. This goal is to get down under 400 lbs. My reward? I'm going to go to the doctor. Does that sound counterintuitive? Maybe to some. But as all super morbidly-obese people know, going to the doctor is like a literal guarantee that they are going to make you feel like shit about yourself, they will refuse to help or actually treat any medical conditions, and will try to refer you to both a dietitian and a doctor who specializes in weight loss surgery. So yeah, huge waste of time. But I want to go rub my weight loss in Dr. Jerk's face. And then probably see about getting my menstruation back. Because however much I hate the stupid process, I'm happier, healthier, and more emotionally stable when my period comes every month.
